CHARLES  JAMES 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


BY 

CHARLES 
JAMES 

AUTHOR     OF 

JOAN  OF  ARC 

(A        DRAMA) 


NEW    YORK 
1903 


This  edition  is  limited  to 

Two  Hundred  Copies,    of  which 

this  volume  is 

NQ.../XL. 


Copyright,  1903 
By     FLORA     RAYMOND 


HILL   AND   LEONARD,  NEW  YORK  CITY 


PS 


This    Collection    of  Poems 

is  dedicated  to   the 

FRIENDS   OF  THE   AUTHOR 

by 

FLORA    RAYMOND 


COLONEL  CHAELES  JAMES. 

The  publisher  of  this  selection  from  the  poetical 
writings  of  the  late  Colonel  Charles  James  has  thought 
it  not  unfitting,  whether  for  the  stranger  or  the  friendly 
reader,  to  include  certain  editorials  from  Washington 
newspapers  published  shortly  after  his  death.  They  are 
given  below: 

From  "The  Washington  Post,"  October  28,  1901. 

A  friendship  extending  over  a  period  of  more  than 
a  century  existed  between  the  late  Colonel  Charles 
James,  of  this  city,  and  Mr.  John  Bigelow,  journalist, 
statesman,  and  author.  Of  about  the  same  age,  both 
figured  prominently  in  affairs  of  the  nation  many  years 
ago.  Mr.  Bigelow,  who  a  long  time  since  was  Minister 
to  France,  later  published  the  life  of  Franklin,  and  was 
subsequently  made  the  biographer  of  Samuel  J.  Tilden 
by  the  terms  of  the  latter's  will,  is  now  eighty-four  years 
old  and  in  fair  health.  The  following  letter  to  the 
sister  of  Colonel  James  shows  how  highly  he  esteemed 
the  distinguished  gentleman  whose  death  was  chronicled 
a  week  ago  to-day : 

HIGHLAND-FALLS-ON-HUDSON,  October  23,  1901. 

MBS.  SARAH  V.  COON. 

Dear  Madam:  So  long  an  interval  has  elapsed  since  I 
heard  directly  from  your  brother  that  I  was  apprehensive  that 
the  next  news  I  would  receive  would  be  painful,  but  the 
thought  had  never  crossed  my  mind  that  it  would  be  such  as 
was  conveyed  by  you  so  kindly  in  your  favor  of  the  20th  in- 


stant.  My  old  friend  seemed  so  cheerful  and  content  when  I 
have  seen  him,  and  his  correspondence  was  always  so  happily 
inspired,  that  I  never  supposed  I  would  live  to  read  his 
obituary.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  ever  visit  Washington 
again,  but  it  certainly,  in  his  death,  has  parted  with  one  of  its 
greatest  social  attractions  to  me. 

Our  acquaintance  dated  back  some  sixty  years,  and  was  asso 
ciated  with  some  of  the  most  critical  events  in  our  national  his 
tory,  in  which  both  of  us  took  a  lively  and  not  unimportant 
interest,  looking  always  toward  similar  patriotic  results.  He 
was  full  of  talent;  he  was  a  born  orator,  and  had  a  singular  in 
fluence  over  men.  Of  all  the  friends  of  Colonel  Fremont  in  the 
country,  there  were  very  few  for  whom  I  had  such  a  sincere 
personal  regard. 

He  used  to  talk  with  me  occasionally  about  a  record  he  had 
been  making  of  what  he  regarded  as  the  more  important  inci 
dents  of  his  career,  with  sketches  of  the  public  men  with  whom 
he  had  been  in  contact.  People  who  are  encouraged  by  friends 
to  undertake  to  leave  to  posterity  an  account  of  an  interesting 
public  career  pretty  generally  get  tired  of  it  after  a  while,  and 
it  is  remarkable  that  so  few  men  whose  careers  in  the  world 
have  been  more  or  less  brilliant  have  left  any  record  of  it 
except  in  their  achievements.  Your  brother's  life,  after  retiring 
from  his  profession  and  all  official  avocations,  was  so  much 
prolonged  that  I  indulge  the  hope  that  the  leisure  of  his  latter 
days  was  made  pleasant  to  him  by  jotting  down  a  tolerably 
complete  and  consecutive  record  of  his  singularly  diversified 
public  life. 

It  would  gratify  me  to  be  informed  if  you  have  found  any 
substantial  basis  for  my  hopes  among  his  papers.  If,  as  is 
probable,  any  suitable  notice  of  his  career  should  appear  in 
any  of  the  Washington  or  California  papers,  I  should  esteem  it 
a  favor  if  you  would  give  me  the  title  and  the  date  of  that 
print. 

I  can  imagine  what  a  privation  his  departure  must  appear 
to  you,  and  I  pray  you  to  accept  the  assurance  of  my  cordial 
sympathy.  Yours  very  respectfully, 

JOHN  BIGELOW. 


Colonel  James  left  many  papers  of  value  referring  to 
public  events  in  which  he  participated  and  public  men 
with  whom  he  was  associated,  but  did  not,  unhappily, 
prepare  a  complete  record  of  his  life. 

vi 


From  "The  Woman's  Tribune,"  November  2,  1901. 

The  Woman's  Tribune  has  lost  a  firm  friend  and 
the  suffragists  of  the  District  a  stanch  adherent  in 
the  death  of  Colonel  Charles  James,  which  occurred 
October  20th.  He  was  eighty-four  years  of  age,  took  a 
walk  out  on  Saturday,  and  his  peaceful  passing  away 
on  Sunday  came  as  a  benediction. 

Among  the  few  men  who  from  time  to  time  attend  the 
suffrage  meetings,  Colonel  James  was  a  conspicuous  and 
picturesque  figure.  He  was  six  feet  two  inches  tall,  as 
straight  as  an  arrow,  and  his  silver  hair  fell  about  his 
shoulders.  Colonel  James  during  his  long  life  always 
took  a  prominent  part  in  public  affairs.  He  was  a 
Democrat  in  ante-bellum  days,  then  a  Eepublican  and  a 
personal  friend  of  Lincoln,  Grant,  Thomas  H.  Benton 
and  others  of  the  leading  men  of  the  day.  New  issues 
having  arisen,  he  ceased  to  support  the  Eepublican 
Party  and  was  vice-president  of  the  Anti-Imperialist 
League  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  ever  stood  firm 
for  principle,  and  in  many  positions  of  trust  he  demon 
strated  his  rectitude  and  ability. 

Colonel  James  had  a  most  remarkable  memory.  He 
knew  the  history  of  the  country,  and  that  of  every  actor 
on  its  stage,  for  the  last  half  century,  and  would  often 
instruct  his  visitors  by  showing  that  the  truth  of  events 
was  far  different  from  the  generally  accepted  version. 
Unlike  many  old  people  who  vividly  recollect  the  past, 
but  are  indifferent  to  the  present,  Colonel  James  kept 
the  run  of  current  events  equally  well,  and  a  chat  with 
him  was  like  no  other  experience,  as  he  poured  forth 
unstintedly  the  treasures  of  his  memory  and  judgment. 

Colonel  James  should  be  permanently  known  in  lit 
erature  by  his  drama  of  Joan  of  Arc,  which  is  the  most 
sympathetic  and  discriminating  portrayal  of  the  char 
acter  of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  which  has  been  given  to 
the  public.  For  some  years  he  had  been  engaged  in  his 
torical  writing  and  it  is  hoped  that  something  of  this 

vii 


may  be  in  shape  to  be  preserved,  although  it  is  known 
that  not  long  ago  he  destroyed  a  great  deal  of  manu 
script,  saying  he  could  write  it  better. 

So  passeth  from  our  sight  a  man  whom  to  see  was  to 
admire ;  to  know  was  to  love. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  WAVES  AND  THE  ROCKS 1 

ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA 6 

ONWARD 16 

INTERPRETATION 18 

ONE  NIGHT  I  RODE  'NEATH  SHINING  MOON 20 

THE  TELEPHONE 21 

SKANEATELES  27 

SUCCESSION    29 

HISTORY 31 

MARY  STUART 32 

DAVID  BBODEBICK 33 

ONLY  ME 36 

GRANT  37 

SAMUEL  S.  Cox 38 

CLEOPATRA  AND  HYPATIA 39 

.(ENEAS  AND  DlDO 40 

RURAL  42 

JOVE  AND  JUNO. 43 

ENIGMA 44 

EVOLUTION   45 

BILL  BURLING'S  TROUTING  EXPEDITION 46 

BARTHOLDI'S  STATUE 48 

THE  TRUANTS 50 

YUBA  DAM 52 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  SPRING  OF  1901 54 

ALL  HAIL  MISSOURI  ! 56 

THE  ISLAND  NYMPHS 57 

PRESENT-DAY  RHYMSTERS 59 

ON  MRS.  AMBROSE'S  BIRTHDAY 61 

ix 


PAGE 

To  MABTHA 62 

ADELAIDE  JOHNSON 64 

To  Miss  ADELAIDE  JOHNSON 65 

To  Miss  KATE  FIELD 66 

RECEIPT  FOB  A  CHECK 67 

To  MBS.  HELEN  L.  SUMNEB 68 

To  MBS.  JENNIE  L.  MUNBOE 69 

To  Miss  NELLIE  AMBROSE 70 

To  ELLEN  AUBELIA  OPHELIA 70 

To  NELL 71 

To  ANNIE 72 

To  SABAH 74 

A  LETTEB 75 

THE  DBAHA  THIBTT  YEABS  AGO 76 

IN  THE  CATSKILLS 78 

To  AGNES.  . .  .80 


THE  WAVES  AND  THE  EOCKS. 

UP  on  the  Cliff  out  from  the  Gate* 
One  day  I  lingered,  lone  and  late, 

To  watch  the  listless  waters  play 

Where  the  broad  Ocean  meets  the  Bay,f 

And  with  insatiate  hunger  swills 
Its  truant  offspring  from  the  hills. 

Each  lazy  wave  was  half  asleep 

As  he  came  trolling  from  the  deep, 
Coaxing  his  fellows  to  the  land 

Where  they  would  gently  kiss  the  strand, 
And  then,  retiring  gracefully, 

They  rippled  to  the  rocks  away, 
"Oh,  let  our  dateless  conflict  cease 

And  let  there  be  between  us  peace." 

The  threatening  rocks  like  ramparts  frowned, 
Or  warders  stopping  in  their  round 

To  scan  a  hostile,  desperate  host, 

Which  though  it  seemed  in  slumber  lost 

Might  in  an  instant  call  to  arms 
The  castle,  with  its  rude  alarms. 

Evening  was  scarfing  up  the  West, 
And  Zephyrs  whispered,  "Be  at  rest." 

*Golden  Gate. 
tSan  Francisco  Bay. 


THE  WAVES  AND  THE  ROCKS. 

The  murmur  waked  a  monster  surge 

That  growled  around  the  beetling  verge 
Of  a  rough  rock,  as  if  it  said, 

"I  hate  the  peace  that  deems  us  dead." 
The  rock,  in  turn,  threw  off  the  wave, 

Angered  that  it  should  dare  to  lave 
With  reckless  force  its  rugged  sides 

That  had  recoiled  uncounted  tides. 

A  billow,  that  did  peace  bemoan, 
Seeing  his  fellow  thus  o'erthrown, 

Rolled  like  a  tempest  on  the  rock, 

Which  all  unmoved  withstood  the  shock, 

Scattering  its  wrathful  enemy 
In  gems  upon  the  startled  sea. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,"  came  from  a  cave, 

The  fairies  clapped,  "My  brave,  my  brave !" 

The  sun  went  down;  the  kelpies'  light 
Flashed  fear  on  the  belated  wight, 

And  waves  'gan  fret  at  their  confines, 
Warning  all  stragglers  from  the  lines. 

Then  dark  in  twilight's  muffled  train 

An  awful  form  swept  o'er  the  main, 
Calling  its  force  to  prompt  array, 

To  buffet  out  the  impending  fray, 
The  breakers  trooped  like  crested  knights, 

Cheered  on  by  countless  water  sprites, 
That  wrathful  called  the  winds  to  aid, 

To  pipe  them  to  their  desperate  raid. 

The  tempest,  whirlwind,  hurricane, 
Rushed  wildly  in  to  aid  the  main, 

The  whirlpool  lent  its  awful  force, 
The  eddies  ran  their  counter-course. 


THE  WAVES  AND  THE  ROCKS. 

The  deep,  remorseless  undertow 

Prepared  to  swallow  up  each  foe 
That  failed  to  make  his  footing  good 

And  give  him  to  the  hungering  flood. 
The  billows  formed  in  strong  reserves 

To  aid  the  front  where'er  it  swerves, 
To  stay  the  flyers  from  the  field, 

Who  there  may  die,  but  must  not  yield. 

Each  subject  of  the  gloomy  deep 

At  the  dread  summons  sought  its  keep 

To  shun  this  headlong,  desperate  band 
In  its  mad  war  upon  the  land — 

Each  to  its  home  where'er  it  be 
In  the  wild  regions  of  the  sea. 

The  lion  shouting,  takes  the  wave, 

The  otter  seeks  his  highest  cave ; 
The  mermaid,  sorrowing,  dives  below 

At  the  impending  notes  of  woe. 
The  sea-boy  by  the  petrel's  flight 

Knows  it  a  boding,  luckless  night. 
All  things  conspire  each  sense  to  tell 

'Twill  be  a  scene  of  discord  fell. 

As  thus  the  deep  began  to  rave, 
Echo,  awak'ning  from  her  cave, 

Summoned  each  headland  of  the  coast 
To  beat  back  Ocean's  countless  host. 

Grimly  they  stand,  like  warriors  tried, 

The  coming  onset  to  abide, 
And  as  the  squadrons  of  the  deep 

Drive  at  the  land  with  ceaseless  sweep, 


THE  WAVES  AND  THE  ROCKS. 

The  rough  coast,  with  its  iron  hand, 
Bars  the  mad  waters  from  the  land. 

Though  baffled  thus,  the  bellowing  flood 

Still  makes  its  fearful  onset  good, 
And,  as  the  breakers  fall  before, 

Fresh  breakers  in  the  breaches  pour. 
They  storm  each  peak,  attack  each  fort, 

Mount  buttress,  fosse  and  sally-port, 
Search  every  vulnerable  point, 

Of  their  rough  armor  try  each  joint, 
And,  as  they  fall,  their  comrades  close 

Upon  them  with  avenging  blows. 
Each  echoing  crash  and  hollow  groan 

Is  mingled  with  the  thunder-stone, 
While  vivid  flashes  through  the  night 

Give  shifting  glimpses  of  the  fight. 

There  was  no  lagging,  blow  on  blow, 
Eained  on  the  firmly  breasting  foe, 

While  the  vexed  armies  of  the  main 
To  break  the  coast  kept  up  the  strain. 

All  night  the  waves  to  meet  the  brunt 

Were  swiftly  hurrying  to  the  front. 
Eager  they  went,  with  splash  and  sigh, 

Low  muttering  as  the  fight  drew  nigh ; 
But  when  they  met  the  steady  roar 

Of  Conflict  pounding  on  the  shore, 
They  donned  their  crests  of  sparkling  foam 

To  charge  the  sullen  monsters  home, 
Burst  on  the  scene  for  conflict  dight 

To  swell  the  tumult  of  the  fight, 
Pilled  the  torn  ranks  of  their  compeers, 

Mid  sheets  of  flame  and  thunder-cheers 


THE  WAVES  AND  THE  ROCKS. 

Bore  back  the  stragglers  in  their  course, 
Struck  the  firm  rocks  with  ruffian  force, 

Clung  to  the  foe,  and  in  recoil 
Brought  off  their  scanty,  hard-won  spoil. 

All  night  the  laboring  giant  rocks 
Repelled  the  waves'  incessant  shocks, 

Their  centres  broke  and  turned  their  flanks, 
And  hurled  them  headlong  on  their  ranks. 

But  when  the  Couriers  of  the  East 
Brought  tidings  of  the  day  released, 

And,  mounting  up  the  dappled  sky, 
The  waves  less  fierce  their  onset  ply; 

And,  when  the  sun  an  hour  had  shone, 
The  crests  of  that  wild  host  were  gone. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATEA. 
I. 

IN  Ptolemy's  halls  no  feast  is  held  to-night; 

Imperial  Antony  has  gone  to  Home: 
Unsummoned  slaves,  with  listless,  wandering  sight, 

Gaze  for  the  landmarks  of  their  distant  home. 
Slow-wheeling  rooks,  with  lazy,  winnowing  flight, 

Seek  the  dark  forest  with  the  coming  gloam, 
While  every  look  and  outward  sign  attest 

That  Cleopatra's  Egypt  is  at  rest. 

II. 

Not  so  the  Queen :  within  her  fearful  heart 

Swift-fleeting  passions  hold  alternate  sway, 
Each  throwing  with  remorseless  hand,  a  dart, 

Goading  with  cruel  wounds  their  helpless  prey, 
Until  of  her  fine  mold,  the  dullest  part 

Becomes  a  piece  of  agonizing  clay, 
And  her  unquiet  breast  is  all  on  fire 

With  love,  with  anguish,  and  with  fierce  desire. 

III. 

Wild  as  the  sea,  the  waves  of  each  emotion 
Break  on  the  trembling  shores  of  her  unrest, 

Whence,  swift  receding  to  that  fretful  ocean, 
They  rise  again  with  a  more  maddening  crest, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

And  rushing  forward  with  increased  devotion, 
They  court  destruction  with  a  keener  zest, 

And  die,  confounded  in  a  wasting  strife, 
Mingling  the  billows  with  the  sands  of  life. 

IV. 

She  seems  enchained  as  to  a  barren  rock, 

Where  wearying  care  sits  checking  at  desire, 
Hemming  her  aspirations,  like  a  flock 

Of  starlings  caged,  or  scorpions  girt  with  fire : 
While  fate,  relentless  as  a  marble  block, 

Weighs  on  her  constancy,  and  strives  to  tire 
Out  hope  and  faith,  and,  to  increase  her  woes, 

Adds  reckless  desperation  to  her  foes. 

V. 

And  now  she  faces,  as  a  dove  ensnared 

The  fowler's  swift  approach,  her  hapless  lot, 
Wishing  that  ere  with  monarchs  she  was  paired 

Her  home  had  been  the  humblest  peasant's  cot ; 
Wondering  if  e'er  before  a  princess  fared 

A  fate  so  wretched,  or  if  such  a  blot 
Ever  obscured  affections  half  so  bright, 

Or  left  them  wandering  in  so  void  a  night. 

VI. 

Panting  she  stands  at  bay  and  pleads  her  cause 
From  every  feature  of  her  working  soul, 

Proclaiming  false  the  inexorable  laws 

That  would  subject  her  to  their  hard  control, 

And  keep  her  from  her  doting  lord's  applause, 
Which  is  her  right,  and  is  the  cherished  goal 


8  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

That  every  throb  which  shakes  her  laboring  breast, 
Proclaims  to  be  her  hope,  her  heaven,  her  rest. 

VII. 

Her  bosom's  swell  is  like  a  river  strong, 

Where  ambling  keels  sport  with  the  heavy  wind. 
Triumphant  navies  cannot  do  it  wrong, 

Eiding  at  anchor,  or  in  battle  joined ; 
Nor  the  swift  whirlwind  where  destruction's  throng 

Drive  on  their  victims  fleeter  than  the  hind ; 
The  conflict  of  her  soul  is  mightier  far 

Than  beating  tempests  or  where  nations  jar. 

VIII. 

Her  eyes  are  deeper  than  a  golden  mine, 

Where  chambered  wealth  comes  struggling  to  the  light, 
Their  thronging  splendors  still  on  splendors  shine, 

And  the  beholder  with  their  magic  smite, 
As  if  intoxication,  once  of  wine, 

Had  played  the  truant,  and  was  now  of  sight. 
So  much  the  anxious  gaze  of  her  distresses 

Enchants  all  objects  with  its  sweet  caresses. 

IX. 

Her  voice  excels  all  mortal  instruments, 
Playing  sweet  carols  with  her  busy  tongue, 

Clamoring  the  story  of  her  discontents, 
Like  a  charmed  nightingale  above  her  young, 

Chiding  injurious  distance,  which  prevents 

Her  sweet  embracements,  and  like  jewels  strung 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

Amidst  the  pearls  of  her  enchanting  lips, 
Veils  shame-faced  music  in  a  grand  eclipse. 

X. 

Love  is  her  theme,  a  hero  is  her  god, 

Her  auditors,  the  world  and  list'ning  time; 
The  wand  she  wields,  like  Aaron's  magic  rod, 

Swallows  all  others  of  each  land  and  clime ; 
It  makes  the  present  and  the  future  nod 

Obedience  to  its  mystic  law  sublime ; 
It  crowns  disastrous  Actium  with  glory, 

And  makes  it  famous  in  immortal  story. 

XI. 

Listen,  how  to  her  maids  the  "wrangling  Queen" 

Declares  the  merits  of  her  absent  love : 
Scorning  as  base  comparison  between 

Him  and  great  Julius,  erst  her  earthly  Jove. 
How,  with  a  womanish,  bewitching  spleen, 

She  thrones  her  wondrous  hero  high  above 
All  prodigies,  proclaiming  him  her  "man  of  men," 

How  Rome  to  Egypt  answers  back  again. 

XII. 

"Dear  Charmian,  will  the  night  again  come  on 

And  not  return  this  King  ?    Oh,  cruel  night, 
Canst  thou  not  breathless  post  quick  Oberon 

To  tell  him  of  his  wretched  Egypt's  plight, 
Or  coax  the  lordly,  swift-departing  sun 

To  bear  the  message  in  his  circling  flight? 
Kind  wenches,  help  me  in  my  helplessness, 

And  take  my  blessing  while  I  yet  may  bless. 


10  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

XIII. 

"Did  I  love  Caesar  so  ?"    "My  salad  days." 
"By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth." 

Companion  not  my  lord  and  monarch's  ways 
With  his,  for  whom  my  love  was  but  as  Lethe 

To  the  flooded  Nile.    Oh,  let  me  breathe ! 
Unlace  me,  gentle  Charmian,  or  I  die. 

Quick,  quick !  oh,  tell  me  where  is  Antony  ? 

XIV. 

"Is  he  upon  the  land  or  on  the  sea  ? 

Or  leads  he  forth  his  battling  hosts  to  slaughter  ? 
How  proud  the  land,  how  proud  the  sea  must  be, 

Whichever  bears  him,  be  it  land  or  water ! 
For  I  declare,  as  I  am  Ptolemy's  daughter, 

I'd  rather  share  the  throne  whereon  he  rides, 
And  reign  the  mistress  of  that  hero's  breast, 

Than  know  the  joys  of  countless  happy  brides 
That  by  their  countless  lovers  are  caressed, 

Or  share  Elysium  with  the  perfect  blest. 

XV. 

"Sweet  Iras,  could  I  tell  thee  of  the  field 

Which  this  all-conquering  hero  here  has  won, 

How,  without  sword  or  buckler,  spear  or  shield, 
He  rose  upon  me  like  the  mastering  sun 

Battling  the  clouds ;  what  heaven  it  was  to  yield ! 
How  when  his  warrior  arms,  so  sweetly  rude, 

Clasp  me  no  more  comes  killing  solitude, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  11 

XVI. 

"Then  would  thy  young  blood  gallop  through  thy  veins 
Chasing  the  substance  of  each  shadowy  thought; 

Delicious  dreams  should  pay  thee  for  thy  pains, 
On  beds  of  sweetest  roses  thou'dst  be  wrought 

To  the  wild  ecstasy  of  perfect  bliss 
And  die  upon  a  fancied  lover's  kiss ! 

XVII. 

"But  language  is  all  vain  for  such  a  theme, 

Weak,  poor,  abortive,  and  those  windy  sighs 
Must  feebly  speak  remembrance  of  a  gleam, 

Oh,  my  poor  heart !  from  my  enchanter's  eyes, 
Which  made  my  vacant  past  an  idle  dream 

From  which  he  snatched  me  like  a  mighty  prize, 
Made  me  an  empress  in  his  heart  alone, 

And  to  the  world  proclaimed  me  to  my  throne. 

XVIII. 

"Broad-fronted  Caesar,  in  my  'green,  cold  days/ 

I  doted  on  thee  with  a  girlish  pride ; 
Thou  wert  a  demi-god,  and  on  thy  ways 

Waited  all  nations,  and  the  mighty  tide 
Of  adulation,  not  my  heart's  desire, 

Taught  me  submission  and  made  thee  a  sire. 

XIX. 

"And  Pompey  too,  would  fix  that  steady  gaze, 
Which  awed  the  world,  full  on  my  golden  brow, 

Until  he  was  bewildered  in  a  maze 

Of  sweet  enchantment,  which  did  aptly  grow 


12  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

His  bonds,  when — forgetting  place  and  power — 
He  came  a  willing  captive  to  my  bower, 

XX. 

"To  revel  with  a  queen,  whose  witching  charms 
Made  conquest  pause  from  taking  kingdoms  in. 

And  I,  a  willing  victim  in  his  arms, 
Did  count  it  neither  sacrifice  nor  sin 

To  know  this  Eoman,  who,  with  magic  stamp 
On  the  dull  earth  could  raise  the  bristling  camp. 

XXI. 

"But  Antony's  the  'burgonet  of  men/ 
The  'demi-Atlas'  of  the  rounded  world, 

Love's  master,  monarch,  and  no  mortal  ken 
Before  saw  royalty  wholly  impearled 

In  excellence,  for  in  the  art  of  winning 
This  wonder  is  the  end  and  the  beginning ! 

XXII. 

"0  slow-winged  Hope,  mount  thou  the  gloomy  clouds 
That  in  his  absence  hang  upon  my  brow ; 

Untie  the  winds,  and  press  them  to  the  shrouds, 
Sweet  JEolus,  of  his  returning  prow : 

0  dear  Octavia  and  great  Commonwealth, 
Deliver  him  from  seeking  me  by  stealth. 

XXIII. 

"Proclaim — thou  mighty  scion  of  the  great — 
That  Egypt's  Antony's  most  royal  spouse, 

Made  so  by  bonds  more  holy  than  the  State 
Devised,  to  prop  the  fortunes  of  thy  house, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  13 

For  they  came  forth  from  out  the  flaming  gate 
Of  Paradise,  love's  offering,  not  from  the  carouse. 

Oh,  call  them  not  the  vain  and  vaporing  words 
Of  Alexandria's  wassail-loving  lords! 

XXIV. 

"Do  this,  and  from  the  portals  of  my  soul, 

Swifter  than  thought,  shall  fly  my  eager  prayers, 

That  power  be  given  thee  from  pole  to  pole, 

That  heaven  may  bless  thy  royal  couch  with  heirs, 

That  thou  delivered  be  from  vexing  cares, 
Thy  fortunes  peerless  and  thy  courage  strong 

To  smite  the  wronger,  and  to  stay  the  wrong. 

XXV. 

"How  silly  'tis  to  prate !    Where  is  my  lord  ? 

Are  there  no  tireless  messengers  from  Rome 
Bending  beneath  one  single,  mighty  word 

From  the  world's  master  ?    Love  shall  pierce  the  dome 
Of  the  great  Capitol.    0  Antony,  come,  come ! 

Kingdoms  shall  fade,  and,  like  a  scroll,  the  sky, 
But  our  imperial  love  shall  never  die! 

XXVI. 

"Hark !  hearest  thou  not  Jove's  awful  thunders  roll  ? 

And  seest  thou  not  the  reverent  mountains  nod  ? 
My  lord  is  speaking !  heavenly  powers,  control ! 

If  he  deny  me,  help  me  kiss  the  rod 
And  then,  0  Isis,  let  me  quickly  die 

Without  one  hope  of  immortality. 


14  ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 

XXVII. 

"Throw  me,  abandoned,  on  the  muddy  banks 
Of  the  shrunk  Nile,  and  let  me  there  decay : 

Let  the  rank  flies  suck  my  poor  body's  thanks, 
As  they  shall  bear  me  mite  by  mite  away 

Destroying  everything  which  made  men  say 
'She  is  a  marvel/    0  sweet  oblivion, 

Leave  not  a  trace  of  me  beneath  the  sun ! 

XXVIII. 

"But  if  he  herald  forth  his  swift  return 

I'll  strew  his  homeward  path  with  'Orient  pearls' ; 

His  prancing  steed,  as  he  the  ground  doth  spurn, 
Shall  glow  with  diamonds.    Listen !  Listen,  girls ! 

He's  coming  to  me,  how  my  weak  brain  whirls ! 
Prepare  a  banquet,  beggar  all  the  land, 

Let  Alexandria  more  than  Eome  be  grand." 

XXIX. 

Prone  to  her  couch  the  royal  princess  falls, 

Her  struggles  ceasing  with  exhausted  nature ; 
Unheeded  are  her  frantic  maidens'  calls, 

Who  strive  to  animate  each  fading  feature; 
For  love,  which  her  whole  being  now  enthralls, 

Enmeshes,  yet  sets  free  the  varying  creature : 
She  roams  with  Antony  in  fields  Elysian 

And  feasts  her  soul  upon  a  heavenly  vision. 

XXX. 

Entranced,  she  hears  her  Eoman  lover  speak 
Words  which  her  greedy  ears  alone  are  heeding, 

And  though  she  deems  her  throbbing  heart  must  break 
With  joy,  yet  for  more  joy  she  keeps  it  pleading, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  15 

Praying  from  that  wild  dream  ne'er  to  awake, 

But  on  delicious  viands  to  be  feeding, 
While  he  from  kingly  glory  turns  aside 

And  speaks  her  fair  as  his  imperial  bride. 

XXXI. 

"I  come,  my  Queen,  though  Romans  call  me  hence, 

'Let  the  wide  arch  of  the  ranged  empire  fall/ 
Not  Fulvia's  railing  nor  Octavia's  sense, 

Nor  the  young  Caesar's  more  imperious  call 
Shall  part  me  from  thee,  through  their  mixed  pretense. 

Leap  thou  into  my  heart,  attire  and  all, 
And  ride  triumphant  on  its  pulses,  thence — 

Of  love  hold  thy  high  carnival. 

XXXII. 

efYes,  let  it  be  of  love,  and  in  thy  joy 

Twine  thou  my  heart-strings  with  thy  golden  hair ; 
Braid  them  in  jesses  for  that  hooded  boy 

Whose  power  alone  makes  us  a  matchless  pair, 
And  when  you  whistle  him  down  the  yielding  air 

To  play  at  fortune,  fickle  maid  and  coy, 
Be  sure,  great  queen,  be  sure  you  check  him  fair, 

And  bring  him  back  before  those  sweets  do  cloy, 
Which  his  true  subjects  only  can  enjoy." 


16  ONWARD. 


ONWARD. 

A  BROOK  leaped  down  the  mountain  side, 

And  caroled  as  it  ran : 
"I  go  to  seek  the  ocean-tide, 

My  race  is  but  a  span. 

"I  am  a  simple,  wayward  thing, 

Yet  tractable  withal; 
I  am  a  subject,  yet  a  king, 

And  subjects  heed  my  call. 

"I  kiss  the  pebbles  clean  and  cool, 

And  wear  the  rocks  away; 
At  times  I  am  the  sleeping  pool, 

At  times  the  dashing  spray. 

"I  turn  the  wheels  and  drive  a  host 

Of  busy,  active  hands, 
And  then  abandon  them  to  coast 

Among  the  shifting  sands. 

"My  mother  was  the  ocean  blue, 

My  father  was  the  sun, 
My  sister  is  the  mountain  dew 

That  laughs  to  see  me  run." 

And  on,  and  on,  and  on  it  came ; 

It  had  been  running  long, 
Its  busy  work  was  all  the  same — 

The  same  its  constant  song. 


ONWARD.  17 


I  often  saw  it  turn  aside 
For  something  in  its  track; 

But  onward  it  did  always  glide, 
It  never  once  turned  back. 

I  saw  a  thousand  things  oppose 

Its  coursing,  and  I  saw 
It  overcome  its  mightiest  foes 

To  vindicate  a  law. 

The  statutes  lay  all  open,  wide, 
And  on  them  burst  a  gleam 

Of  light  from  this  fair  mountain  tide, 
And  PROGRESS  was  the  theme. 


18  INTERPRETATION. 


INTERPRETATION. 

I  SAW  a  leaf  fall  from  a  tree, 

Another,  and  another,  three; 
And  then  a  half  a  dozen  more, 

And  then  a  dozen,  then  a  score, 
And  then  at  least  a  hundred  score 

In  a  swift  flood  did  shower  and  pour. 

The  frost  had  gripped  them,  and  the  sun 
Undid  his  fingers,  one  by  one, 

And  as  from  out  his  grasp  they  slip, 
Downward  they  glide  with  dive  and  dip 

To  the  broad  earth,  and  are  received 
Like  penitents  returned  and  grieved. 

I  listened  as  they  took  farewell 

Of  the  tall  branches.    There  was  no  knell 
At  parting,  and  there  was  no  sound 

As  down  they  fell.    The  solemn  ground 
Received  their  intermingled  hues 

Silent,  as  it  receives  the  dews. 

I  listened  closer,  and  I  heard 
A  gentle  whisper,  but  no  word, 

And  then  a  murmur  low  and  long, 
And  then  an  anthem,  then  a  song 

Burst  on  my  fancy.    The  refrain 
Was  mystical,  and  then  'twas  plain. 

"Obey  the  law  all  must  obey, 
The  frost  has  come,  away,  away !" 


INTERPRETATION.  19 

"But  whither?"    "Let  the  winds  decide, 

Fate  is  our  reinsman  and  we  ride 
A  reckless  race  without  a  fear, 

As  tempests  drive  and  currents  veer." 

"0  providence  of  God,"  I  cried, 

"Is  this  the  lesson,  this  the  guide, 
A  forest  by  the  frost  defaced 

A  whirlwind  strewing  leaves  displaced, 
Are  all  the  sport  of  lot  and  chance, 

Is  life  but  a  wild,  whirling  dance  ?" 

A  cadence  ran  across  the  strain, 

Interpreting  and  making  plain 
The  mystic  euphony.    And  then 

The  song  went  on:  "0  living  men, 
Take  heed  of  this,  a  reckless  fate 

Is  but  for  the  inanimate." 

'Twas  not  the  leaves  that  spoke  at  all 
'Twas  not  their  parting  nor  their  fall, 

Nor  their  wild  deat^-dance  o'er  the  plain, 
Nor  yet  their  fell  destroyer's  reign : 

A  mightier  voice  than  all  of  these 

Spoke  through  the  winds,  the  leaves,  the  trees. 


20      ONE  NIGHT  I  RODE  'NEATH  SHINING  MOON. 


ONE  NIGHT  I  EODE  'NEATH  SHINING  MOON. 

ONE  night  I  rode  'neath  shining  moon, 
And  gazed  upon  the  peaceful  scene  below ; 

'Twas  beautiful — the  bay,  the  dark  lagoon, 
The  placid  lake,  the  shining  stars  that  glow 

Like  sapphires — oh,  that  man  could  know  his  fate ! 

And  whether  scenes  like  these  would  meet  him  there, 
That  bourn  whereto  he  goes,  and  will  he  mate 

With  those  he  loved  on  earth,  the  true,  the  fair? 

It  may  be  selfish,  yet  there  is  in  man 

A  selfish  vein  which  he  can  never  hide, 
Army  of  impulses,  it  holds  the  van, 

His  friends,  his  fortune,  and  his  chosen  bride. 

These  are  his  yearnings :  is  it  sordid  then  ? 

I  cannot  tell,  but  heaven  has  made  us  so ; 
Chide  as  he  will,  they  will  return  again : 

With  them  is  heaven,  and  all  without  them  woe. 


THE  TELEPHONE.  21 


THE  TELEPHONE.* 


CANTO   I. 
I. 

EVEN  as  the  trout  doth  leave  his  fond  retreat, 

Under  some  bank  hid  from  the  noonday  sun, 
And  with  his  tiny  feelers  'gins  to  greet 

The  moon's  cold  rays  and  tempt  them,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  flood,  with  many  a  graceful  feat 

To  show  his  spots ;  so,  when  the  day  is  done, 
Will  fancy,  loosed  by  sleep,  dart  thro  the  will 

And  captivate  the  senses  with  her  skill. 

II. 

Then  will  she  batten  up  the  walls  of  thought, 

Hamper  cold  reason,  summon  her  light  train 
Where,  in  her  airy  chambers  all  is  naught 

And  naught  is  all,  the  heat-belabored  brain 
Throws  off  its  legions  from  impressions  caught 

While  it  was  conscious.    Vainer  than  the  vain 
Are  the  wild  pictures  which  her  skill  discloses, 

All  shapes  and  shades,  from  skeletons  to  roses. 

*A  fragment  of  an  unfinished  poem. 


22  THE   TELEPHONE. 

III. 

Good  Daniel  dreamed,  and  St.  John  had  a  vision, 

Josephus  claimed  to,  but  was  such  a  liar, 
And  told  such  selfish  dreams,  there's  indecision 

Whether  he  dreamed  or  not.    Full  many  a  squire 
Has  dreamed  of  love  and  fame,  some  from  Elysium 

Like  Parisina  wake  but  to  expire; 
For  dreaming,  though  it's  oft  of  happiness, 

Is  not  on  waking  always  a  success. 

IV. 

Sleeping,  one  night  methought  the  sacred  Nine 

Stood  close  beside  me,  huddled  in  a  clump, 
White-robed.    'Twas  June,  skies  clear,  the  weather  fine, 

The  moon  high  at  her  full,  and  the  time  jump 
At  the  dead  hour  of  midnight.    I  incline 

To  a  belief  in  sprites  and  was  about  to  pump 
Them  with  whence,  whither  and  why?  when  one  said, 

"Arise  and  go  with  me  where  mortals  never  tread. 

V. 

"I  am  the  muse  of  strange  Astronomy, 

And  make  a  close  inspection  every  year 
Throughout  the  realms  of  space.    Its  nice  economy 

Will  interest  you ;  each  separate  sphere 
Has  in  one  sense  its  own  distinct  autonomy, 

Yet  all  are  joined,  the  combination's  queer 
And  not  observed;  but  through  the  Telephone 

We  hope  for  unity  in  thought  and  tone. 

VI. 

"And  this  shall  be  our  mission.    It  will  take 
Perchance  a  day,  the  territory's  vast. 


THE  TELEPHONE.  23 

Of  course  you  will  consent  for  science's  sake. 

We  are  sole  commissioners ;  Present  and  Past 
Shall  be  revealed  to  us,  and  we  will  make 

Our  own  report,  whose  wonders  shall  outlast 
The  vision  that  revealed  them;  or  if  not 

The  fault  will  be  our  own ;  we  work  the  plot." 

VII. 

So  tempted,  how  could  any  one  refuse  ? 

Not  I,  my  noble  lord.    On  such  a  trip 
Alone,  aloft,  with  the  most  charming  muse, 

And  then,  to  have  the  reporters  on  the  hip ; 
They  can't  ascend.    We're  off  upon  our  cruise 

Quicker  than  thought,  in  an  aerial  ship, 
Or  skiff, — I  really  can't  describe  the  rig, — 

But  'twas  more  spacious  than  a  cutter's  gig. 

VIII. 

And  as  we  left  the  earth,  the  muses  waved — 

Those  that  remained,  I  mean — a  fair  adieu. 
'Twas  comforting,  besides  'twas  well-behaved. 

By  Heaven,  it  was  a  glorious  sight  to  view ! 
The  earth  beneath,  and  where  the  ocean  raved 

Along  his  shores,  cutting  with  white  the  blue. 
Then  all  grew  dark,  then  pale,  then  slowly  bright 

It  dawned  a  gorgeous  planet  on  our  sight. 

IX. 

And  on  we  steered  and  veered,  nor  east  nor  west, 

Nor  north  nor  south;  no  compass  shipped;  there  are 

No  points  in  space,  and  no  dead  reckoning.    The  best 
That  one  can  sail  by  is,  now  here,  now  there 


24  THE   TELEPHONE. 

As  you  shall  sight  the  guide  you  are  in  quest 
Of.    We  made  our  course  for  Cassiopeia's  chair. 

It's  just  like  coasting.    As  we  neared  the  moon 
Methought  I  heard  a  low  and  hollow  croon. 

X. 

'Twas  a  delusion,  jagged  and  vast  and  cold 

She  gazed  upon  us,  Death  in  agony, 
Grim  Ruin's  jungle,  empty  Chaos'  hold, 

The  whelps  of  Desolation.    Can  it  be 
That  she  can  sway  the  ocean  ?    Not  an  old 

But  undecaying,  barren  eternity. 
She  seemed  sans  verdure,  mountains,  streams, 

To  glower  the  home  of  phantoms  and  of  dreams. 

XI. 

In  her  rent  sides  stood  Echo,  by  her  cave 

With  head  upraised  and  stony  eyes  all  stark. 
Her  nymphs  like  statuary  o'er  a  grave 

Listened  to  silence.    'Twas  unbroken.    Mark 
How  her  peaks  uprear,  deadly,  not  brave 

Like  earthly  pinnacles.    No  living  spark 
Illumed  her  face,  but  pale  inanity 

Froze  there  a  lecture  stern  to  vanity. 

XII. 

My  guide  undid  a  little  bit  of  coil, 

No  thicker  than  a  spider's  thread, 
And  shot  it  at  her  disk.    Instant  the  toil 

Of  life  was  seen  upon  her,  all  the  dead 
Were  re-created,  fountains  burst  and  boil. 

Voices  were  heard  and  then  a  busy  tread. 


THE   TELEPHONE.  25 


Hark  to  the  joyous  and  the  blithesome  song 
Of  an  emancipated  and  a  happy  throng. 

SONG. 

Adieu,  adieu,  dread,  sombre  death, 
Again  we  catch  our  natal  breath, 

With  no  release  and  no  decay 

Ten  million  years  have  passed  away. 

The  Pleiades  have  lost  a  star, 

But  nothing  could  our  features  mar. 

Silence,  sole  tyrant  of  this  waste, 
Stayed  all  intrusion  to  the  last. 

Hurrah !   Hurrah !  let  all  be  mirth, 
Hurrah  for  this  our  second  birth, 

Hurrah !  we  live  without  decay, 
Ten  million  years  are  but  a  day. 


XIII. 

We  passed  the  orb,  but  kept  up  the  connection 

By  which  we  knew  each  moment  what  occurred. 
A  syndicate  was  formed,  and  an  election 

Was  ordered  in  the  provinces ;  then  word 
Was  sent  that  there  was  some  defection 

Among  the  Indian  tribes,  but  what  most  stirred 
Them  up  was  the  Bland  bill,  which  their  Tycoon 

Declared  meant  coining  glimpses  of  the  moon. 


26  THE  TELEPHONE. 

XIV. 

Prom  thence  we  sailed  into  an  awful  void 

I  could  not  scan,  but  vast  and  vacant  seemed 
Till  presently  we  met  an  asteroid, 

And  then  across  our  course  a  comet  steamed, 
And  then  a  shower  of  meteors  as  if  Troad, 

More  modern  Moscow,  or  Chicago  streamed 
With  fire ;  but  my  unwearied  guide  caught  every  disk 

And  aerolite,  although  the  trade  was  brisk. 


SKANEATELES.  27 


SKANEATELES. 

There  is  a  tradition  that  "Skaneateles"  signifies  "a  beautiful 
Bquaw,"  whom  the  configuration  of  the  lake  represents  in  a 
sitting  posture. 

'Tis  said  thou  art  an  Indian  girl,  sweet  mere, 
So  beautiful,  set  round  with  sloping  hills, 

Or  rather,  Skaneateles, — how  queer, — 

Thou  representst  an  Indian  girl  with  quills 

Stuck  in  her  hair,  strung  in  her  nose  and  ears, 
Worked  in  her  moccasins,  covering  dainty  feet, 

And  that,  though  dead  for  ages,  she  appears 
Molded  in  thy  translucent  waters  sweet. 

Painted  she  must  have  been,  and  on  thy  breast 
I've  seen  the  rainbow  colors  bloom  and  fade, 

Crimson  at  times,  they  shame  the  warrior's  crest, 
Then  dark  and  flashing  like  an  Indian  maid, 

Then  palely  blue,  as  when  the  streaking  East, 
Laced  by  the  couriers  of  the  coming  morn 

Scares  off  the  ugly  night,  and  day  released 
Leaps  into  life,  a  glory  magic-born. 

I  wonder  when  she  lived  and  when  she  died; 

Who  was  her  mate  and  why  she  was  transfigured ; 
Whether  he  loved  her,  chose  her  for  his  bride, 

Gave  her  sweet  gifts,  then  cooled  and  was  a  niggard ; 


28  SKANEATELES. 

Whether  he  brought  to  her  the  scalps  of  foes, 

A  victor's  wreath,  wove  in  a  coverlet, 
And  then  grew  jealous,  stamped  upon  her  toes, 

And  tore  this  hero-mantle  from  his  pet. 

Was  she  bright-eyed,  or  bowed  and  pale  with  sorrow? 

Pale  sure  she  could  not  be,  for  bronze  forbids, 
But  what  I  mean  is,  had  affliction's  arrow 

Struck  deep  and  left  its  traces  round  her  lids  ? 

Oh,  did  she  love,  and  was  she  loved  again, 
And  did  that  subtle  master  hold  her  fast? 

Was  her  love  true,  or  did  he  break  the  chain 
And  leave  her  to  the  winter-chilling  blast? 

Or  was  her  fate  that  of  the  common  lot, 

Sunshine  and  shade,  sharp  trials  and  repose, 

The  beauty  of  existence  and  the  blot, 

The  cypress  dark  surmounted  by  the  rose  ? 

We  ask  her  tale,  the  rippling  waves  roll  on 
Mute  of  her  story,  while  in  heedless  mirth 

The  winds  vault  high  a  moment  and  are  gone, 

Without  a  whisper  of  her  days  on  earth.  ;'  > 


SUCCESSION.  29 


SUCCESSION. 

BRIGHT  morn  sprang  up  and  chased  the  night 

Into  the  regions  of  the  West. 
His  shadows  leaped  from  left  to  right, 
And  then  betook  themselves  to  flight, 

Alarmed  by  her  unsparing  quest. 

Her  rosy  fingers  went  to  work, 
Changing  the  robes  of  all  she  met 

To  every  other  hue  from  jet, 

Shimmering  church  spire  and  minaret, 
For  Christian  and  for  Paynim  Turk. 

She  gave  the  landscape  its  attire, 

Smiled  on  the  mountains  as  she  passed, 

Fretted  their  peaks — at  first  the  higher, 

Then  the  least — with  living  fire, 

And  burnished  up  their  streams  the  last. 

Over  the  ocean  dark  she  sped, 

Played  on  its  billowy  breast  and  chid 

Its  boisterous  license,  and  undid 

Its  combing  locks  wherein  are  hid 
The  forces  that  give  up  the  dead. 

She  shot  down  to  the  coral  reef, 

And  planted  spangles  there  to  light 
Aisles,  domes  and  columns,  in  relief, 
Vines,  stems  and  roses,  stalks  and  sheaf, 
To  awe  the  mermaids  with  delight. 


30  SUCCESSION. 

Thence  summoned  up  by  Sol,  she  paled 

The  stars  and  rove  the  hurricane. 
Whatever  object  night  had  veiled 
She  sought,  and  with  her  strength  assailed 
Each  province  of  his  dark  domain. 

She  rent  the  shroud  that  scarfed  the  host, 
Surprised  the  thief,  annoyed  the  bride, 
Showed  wrecks  and  wreckers  on  the  coast, 
Her  rosy  fingers  aiding  most — 
To  most  she  was  a  royal  guide. 

But  after  came  a  lagging  train. 

Noontide  fell  sleeping  on  a  bank, 
The  radiant  god,  with  weary  wain 
Lashed  up  the  sky,  but  all  in  vain, 

For  slowly  he  declined  and  sank. 

Pensive,  came  dewy  eve,  at  last, 
And  sadly  smiling,  shut  the  door. 

The  ceremony  all  was  past. 

Black  night  his  shadows  then  amassed, 
For  he  was  monarch,  as  before, 
And  morn  must  do  her  conquest  o'er. 


HISTORY.  31 


HISTORY. 

I  MET  a  soldier  jester  morn, 

A  British  soldier,  who  was  born 

In  Kent,  just  ninety  years  ago, 

And  three :  ah,  yes,  he  told  me  so. 

Old  father  Mepsted,  honest  man, 

And  Christian  too,  who  rather  than 

Do  violence  to  truth  would  die, 

At  least  I  think  he  would,  and  I 

Know  him  quite  well.     And  in  his  youth 

He  fought  with  Wellington.    In  truth 

He  did,  at  Waterloo. 

Now  slowly  fades  the  great  ado 

From  out  his  memory,  and  the  glass 

Seems  broken  as  the  shadows  pass; 

For  incoherent  will  he  tell 

The  little  that  he  knew  so  well. 

As  slowly  breasting  up  the  hill 

He  said  "Good  mornin' "  with  a  will, 

He  knew  me  not ;  he  only  knew 

Some  one  was  passing,  and  was  true 

To  his  fine  nature.    His  salute 

Stirred  retrospection  up,  and  mute 

I  gazed  upon  him,  and  I  thought 

Of  the  great  field  where  he  had  fought, 

Of  his  commander,  Wellington, 

Of  Bliicher  fierce,  and  brave  Cambronne, 

His  guard,  the  Emperor  and  Ney, 

The  ranks  there  met — Ah!  where  are  they? 

— That  aged  soldier  little  knew 

That  he  was  leading  in  review 


32  MARY  STUART. 

Three  buried  hosts,  and  that  his  toil 
Had  strangely  mixed  with  the  turmoil 
Of  nations.     Such  are  History's 
Written,  unwritten  mysteries. 


MAKY  STUART. 

A  VISION  rises  on  my  soul; 

In  Stirling's  Towers  a  child  is  born, 
Starred  for  a  high,  but  hapless  goal ; 

Solway's  dread  field,  a  sire  forlorn. 

Grace,  fire,  and  fate  are  in  her  path, 
A  born  and  an  annointed  Queen ; 

France's  fair  lilies,  England's  wrath, 
And  Scotland's  traitors  intervene. 

At  Fotheringay  a  headsman  stands, 
An  axe,  a  block,  a  severed  head. — 

The  pageant's  faded,  and  there  stands 
A  Queen,  unscathed,  unmatched,  instead. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

July  24,  1898. 


DAVID  BRODERICK.  33 


DAVID  BKODERICK. 

"While  the  dead  Senator  lay  in  state,  an  old  man  made  his 
way  through  the  throng  of  mourners  that  surrounded  him  and, 
placing  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  said,  in  a  voice  tremulous 
with  grief:  'God  bless  you!  your  soul  is  now  in  heaven.  Cali 
fornia  has  this  day  lost  her  noblest  son;'  then  crossed  himself 
and  retired." — San  Francisco  Paper,  September,  1859. 

COME,  comrades,  let  us  gather  round  the  fire,  for  it's 

cold, 
The  oaks  are  shedding  down  their  mast,  the  year  is 

growing  old ; 

And  one  has  got  a  tale  to  tell,  a  duty  to  perform, 
That  fits  the  old  year's  coming  knell,  mid  whirlwind, 

surge,  and  storm. 

Come,  let  us  hear  the  old  man  speak,  for  wisdom  still 

hath  years — 
He  who  stood  forth  beside  the  corpse,  mid  sobs  and 

groans  and  tears, 

And  laid  his  hand  upon  the  brow  of  the  dead  hero  slain, 
And  slowly  spake  these  solemn  words,  these  words  of 

faith  and  pain: 

"The  eternal  God  shall  bless  your  soul;  in  heaven  you 

shall  rest; 
We  bless  you  from  your  earthly  goal,  beyond  you  shall 

be  blest; 
Fair  freedom  was  your  chosen  spouse,  thou  wert  the 

noblest  son 
Of  this  our  heritage  and  house,  thou  brave  and  manly 

one." 


34  DAVID  BRODERICK. 

Then  crossed  himself  and  went  away  and  mingled  with 
the  crowd 

Of  thousands  who  stood  round  that  day  with  lamenta 
tions  loud, 

And  since  that  time  we  have  not  seen  his  form  nor 
heard  his  voice 

Until  he  comes  midst  gloom  to-day  to  bid  us  to  rejoice. 

The  old  man  tottered  to  his  chair,  and  we  all  gathered 

round 
To  hear  if  he  could  tell  us  where  one  solace  could  be 

found, — 
To  hear  if  there  was  yet  on  earth  one  who  could  fill  his 

place, 
Who  battled  every  hour  with  wrong,  and  met  it  face 

to  face. 

"Brothers,"  he  spake,  "your  chief,  though  dead,  still  has 

command  in  fight, 
Is  still  the  cringing  placeman's  dread,  still  battles  for 

the  right; 
And  those  who,  while  he  stood  on  earth,  could  swagger 

and  could  boast, 
Now  hide  themselves  in  corner  holes  affrighted  at  his 

ghost. 

"Though  dead,  he  speaks !    Soldiers,  stand  firm  and  you 

shall  win  the  day! 
Amidst  the  ranks  you'll  see  his  form  through  all  the 

changing  fray, 
And  hear  his  voice  in  thunder-tones  of  majesty  and 

might, 
Proclaiming  in  its  awful  close  the  triumph  of  the  right. 


DAVID  BRODERICK.  85 

"They  little  thought,  those  wicked  men  who  planned 

our  hero's  death, 
That  he  to  earth  would  speak  again  with  more  than 

mortal  breath; 
That  he  was  linked  with  things  divine  that  never  can 

grow  old, 
So  long  as  virtue  lives  to  shine  amidst  the  pure  and 

bold. 

"Then  let  us  up  to  meet  the  foe,  and  lay  him  low  at 

length, 
That  all  may  know  the  awful  power  of  this  dead  hero's 

strength ; 
That  after  ages,  too,  may  know  that  wickedness  and 

wrath 
Cannot,  by  doing  murder,  sweep  the  lion  from  its  path." 

The  old  man  ceased, — a  spark  like  fire  came  in  each 

tear-dimmed  eye ; 
A  feeling  ran  through  every  breast  that  Broderick  could 

not  die, 
That  he  should  be,  whatever  betide,  our  leader  in  the 

fight, 
Should  live  to  conquer  still  the  wrong,  and  triumph 

with  the  right. 


36  ONLY  ME. 


ONLY  ME. 

ADOWN  the  street 
'Twas  nod  and  greet, 

Amid  the  crowd 
That  clamored  loud 

He  looked  at  me, 
Ah,  only  me. 

'Twas  festal  day, 
And  all  were  gay. 

For  him  'twas  set 
To  honor,  yet 

He  looked  at  me, 
As  I  could  see. 

My  cheek  was  flushed, 
My  heart  was  hushed. 

Oh,  painful  plight ! 
Yet,  what  delight, 

He  thought  of  me, 
Ah,  only  me. 

I  felt  the  dart 

From  heart  to  heart. 
Oh,  precious  wound, 

I  almost  swooned. 
For  me,  for  me, 

He  is  for  me. 


GRANT.  37 

And  when  we  met, 

Oh,  precious  debt! 
I  lost  my  sight, 

Harmonious  night, 
'Twas  cloak  for  me, 

Ah,  only  me. 


GRANT. 

HE  has  been  summoned,  and  he  has  obeyed. 

The  cords  that  held  him  parted  ruefully. 

As  the  last  gave  way,  the  thud  shook  a  vast  fabric  fash 
ioned  by  himself. 

The  clouds,  which  the  awed  winds  forgot  to  shepherd 
home,  watched  to  the  end. 

The  day  drove  off  the  night  to  light  him  to  the  bourn. 

His  complete  life  is  now  the  nation's,  and  men 

Will  bless  them  that  they  were  his  countrymen. 

New  York, 

July  26,  1885. 


38  SAMUEL  S.  COX. 


SAMUEL  S.  COX. 

Two  famous  sculptors  once  had  strife 
To  prove  which  artist  best  could  fashion, 

Idealized  from  fabled  life, 

A  demi-god  in  pose  and  passion. 

They  brought  their  work,  the  expectant  throng 
The  contrast  viewed  with  awe  and  wonder; 

One's  lines  were  rythmic,  like  a  song, 
One  scowled  a  jagged  son  of  thunder. 

They  chose  the  first;  aloft  'twas  reared, 
But  as  it  neared  its  high  pedestal 

The  crowd  admired,  then  sighed,  then  jeered 
"Your  demi-god's  a  pygmy  vestal." 

Then  clamored  for  the  rougher  form. 

When  'twas  ascending  from  its  base 
Their  admiration  grew  a  storm 

As  each  new  glory  took  its  place. 

This  was  but  art ;  kind  nature  gave 
In  Cox  a  man,  whate'er  the  view, 

The  more  we  see  the  more  we  crave, 
And  cannot,  will  not,  say  adieu. 

Washington,  D.  C. 


CLEOPATRA  AND  HYPATIA.  39 


CLEOPATEA  AND  HYPATIA.* 

(Suggested  by  reading  Draper's  "Intellectual  Development," 
and  Charles  Kingsley's  "Hypatia.") 

THEY  are  come  and  gone,  the  Ptolemies. 

Thou  canst  tell,  0  Alexandria, 

What  mankind  has  lost  and  won; 

How  from  the  spell  of  conquest 

Science  arose,  and  art,  and  high  philosophy, 

How  thronged  thy  halls  with  learning 

And  thy  marts  with  the  world's  greatness. 

Earth's  blazing  chrysolite, 

A  jewel  in  the  Macedonian's  fame — 

And  thy  knell  rung  by  imperial  Eome, 

Havoc's  fell  minister; 

Thy  streets  a  hell,  a  market  place  for  souls. 

Adown  the  centuries  the  hoarse  notes  roll ; 

Eapine  and  murder  shouts, 

Back  o'er  the  scroll, 

Time's  rugged  annals, 

As  on  a  promontory, 

Two  fair  women  chain  the  soul, 

Cleopatra  and  Hypatia, 

The  Ptolemies'  goal  and 

High  philosophy's  resplendent  gem. 

•Published  in  The  Washington  Post. 


40  AENEAS  AND  DIDO. 


AENEAS  AND  DIDO. 

WHEN  Dido  met  JEneas  at  the  cave, 
Storm-driven  by  the  artful  Juno's  wiles, 

His  courtesy  so  kind,  so  fond,  so  brave, 

Dismissed  fler  terrors  and  recalled  her  smiles. 

"Swift,  swift  within  this  cavern  let  us  flee, 
Fear  not,"  he  whispered  in  her  burning  ears, 

"0  my  dear  lord/'  she  said,  "no  fear's  in  me, 
Your  presence  is  the  sudden  death  of  fears. 

"A  tempest  from  the  skies  has  driven  us  in, 

But  you  beget  a  tempest  in  my  veins, 
Baffled  in  war,  you  yet  in  love  may  win ; 

Then  sue  a  Queen  that's  worthy  of  thy  pains. 

"Quick,  fold  me  in  your  arms,  Anchises'  son, 

And  tell  again  the  story  of  thy  life, 
Begin,  dear  lord,  where  Troy  was  lost  and  won, 

When  silent  midnight  waked  to  flaming  strife. 

"Make  me  to  hear  Cassandra's  boding  cry, 
See  Priam's  grief  and  Hecuba's  salt  tears ; 

The  care-worn  breast  of  pale  Andromache, 

The  Greeks'  hot  wrath,  the  flying  maidens'  fears, 

"The  eager  flames  that  did  thy  strength  assail, 

As  through  their  darting  tongues  thou  borest  thy  sire ; 

Then  paint  the  end,  a  universal  wail, 
Not  like  a  city,  but  a  world  on  fire; 


AENEAS  AND  DIDO.  41 

"Thence  trace  the  viewless  track  of  thy  swift  ships, 
The  perils  thou  hast  seen  by  field  and  flood, 

Old  Ocean  straining  at  wide  Neptune's  hips, 
And  the  dread  Cyclops  thirsting  for  thy  blood. 

"What  care  we  for  the  storm-shod,  bickering  wind, 
The  scattered  chase,  the  testy,  fretting  boar, 

The  fearful  fawn,  the  wolf,  the  cowering  hind, 
Tell  it,  dear  lord,  oh,  tell  your  tale  once  more ! 

"  'Twas  that  which  won  me,  win  me  once  again ; 

These  envious  rocks  shall  be  our  bridal  bed. 
Here,  take  me,  lord,  and  to  thy  bosom  strain, 

The  happiest  queen  that  ever  yet  was  wed." 

She  swoons  in  bliss,  the  conscious  rocks  recede, 

Aurora  blushes  crimson  on  the  skies, 
Juno  with  marriage  sanctifies  the  deed ; 

But  Rumor  whispers  on  the  wind,  "She  lies." 


42  RURAL. 


KUKAL. 

SWEET  Chloris  on  the  pasture  stretched 

Lay  tending  of  her  lambs, 
While  Daphnis  at  his  easel  sketched 

Stout  bulls  and  sturdy  rams. 

He  drew  the  monarch  of  the  flock, 

The  monarch  of  the  herd, 
Here  rose  a  hill,  there  towered  a  rock, 

Here  perched  the  felon  bird. 

The  bees  lined  swiftly  o'er  the  plain, 

The  swallows  cut  them  off, 
The  bulls  lay  stretched  like  heroes  slain, 

When  lo !  a  pretty  cough. 

'Twas  not  the  lowing  of  the  herd, 

Nor  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 
JTwas  not  the  whispering  breeze  that  stirred, 

Nor  the  eagle  on  the  rock. 

'Twas  like  the  fairies'  pert  ahem ! 

When  Puck  has  made  a  slip, 
And  Daphnis'  sight  caught  Beauty's  gem 

Eeclining  on  her  hip. 

Her  cheek  lay  pillowed  in  one  palm, 

The  other  held  her  breast, 
"Be  calm,  O  throbbing  heart,  be  calm," — 

Who  cannot  guess  the  rest? 


JOVE  AND  JUNO.  43 


Like  coursers  straining  at  the  bit 
The  blood  leaps  to  their  cheeks, 

A  voice  is  heard,  "A  hit,  a  hit," 
Cupid,  the  rogue,  now  speaks. 

Two  shafts  are  from  his  quiver  gone, 
Two  hearts  appear  transfixed : 

The  flowers  are  blushing  on  the  lawn,- 
This  verse  is  getting  mixed. 


JOVE  AND  JUNO. 

ON  solemn  Ida's  lofty  brow 

Descended  once  a  golden  shower. 
Juno  said  "Later,"  Jove  said  "Now." 

"Shame !  in  the  sight  of  all,"  she  pleads — 
"A  golden  cloud  is  overhead, 

And  gold  will  cover  every  shame 
That  modesty  can  think  or  name." 

He  had  the  power,  no  way  but  this ; 
His  wily  partner,  with  a  kiss, 

Receives  him  in  her  open  arms 
And  then,  when  overpowered  with  bliss, 

Bribes  Sleep  to  soothe  him  from  her  charms. 
Below  the  Trojans  and  the  Greeks 

Embrace  each  other  unto  death : 
The  Trojans  fail,  the  Greeks  prevail. 

Slow  rises  up  the  golden  cloud ; 
She  trembles,  he  is  full  of  wrath, 

Cold,  slaughtered  heroes  strew  the  path 
Where  fury  has  been  rioting — 

Still  her  denials  mock  the  king. 


44  ENIGMA. 


ENIGMA. 

WHAT,  in  the  sight  of  gods  and  men, 
Saturnian  Jove,  say,  what  is  this  ? 

Be  still,  my  love,  from  prying  ken 
A  golden  cloud  shall  hide  our  bliss. 

Quick,  balmy  Sleep,  seal  up  his  eyes, 

Thy  fee  shall  be  a  goddess  born. 
Speed!  fair-haired  Greeks,  and  win  the  prize, 

A  city  and  a  wife  forsworn. 

The  eager  hosts  in  close  array, 

The  goddess  trembling  in  his  arms, 

Hard-breathing  Jove  and  wakeful  day, 
All  pendant  on  a  woman's  charms. 

0  artful  Queen !    0  amorous  Jove ! 

0  toiling  hosts,  0  treacherous  Sleep ! 
0  day  and  night,  earth,  sky  above, 

Plain,  river,  mountain,  rolling  deep ! 


EVOLUTION.  45 


EVOLUTION. 

Two  children  swung  upon  a  gate, 
A  boy  and  girl,  Willie  and  Kate, 
And  eager  in  the  sport  did  mate. 

A  dozen  years  and  Kate  was  older, 
Shyer,  slower,  sweeter,  colder, 
Bashful  at  first,  Willie  grew  bolder. 

The  gate  stood  still  and  Kate  would  listen, 

As  Willie  gazed  into  the  glisten 

Of  two  dark  eyes  that  he  would  christen. 

A  dozen  more,  two  others  swung 

Upon  another  gate,  that  hung 

In  the  same  place,  and  laughter  rung. 

"0  William,  there  is  such  a  noise, 
Send  Tommy  home,  the  worst  of  boys, 
Call  Katy  in,  to  play  with  toys." 

Will  whispered  something  in  her  ear, 
A  smile,  a  sigh,  a  grateful  tear — 
"Pray  leave  them  all  alone,  my  dear." 


46         BILL  BURLING'S  TROUTING  EXPEDITION. 


BILL  BURLING'S  TROUTING  EXPEDITION. 

KERN  VALLEY  famous  is  for  trout, 
And  from  Kern  Valley  leading  out 
Are  several  tributary  valleys, 
Wider,  somewhat,  than  ten-pin  alleys, 
Through  which  small  streamlets  find  their  way 
Where  the  shy  trout  doth  dart  and  play. 
These  streams  are  so  with  chaparral  lined, 
With  vines  enmeshed  and  intertwined, 
That  a  small  monkey  hardly  can 
Creep  in,  much  less  a  full-grown  man. 
And  to  break  through  the  tangle 
Makes  it  an  infernal  bore  to  angle. 

A  broker,  with  commissions  fat, 
One  day  took  sporting  coat  and  hat, 
And  with  his  tackle  forth  did  sally 
To  "catch"  in  the  aforesaid  valley. 
Thence  coasting  up  a  little  brook 
He  thought  to  sconce  him  in  a  nook, 
There  with  his  grog  to  spend  the  day, 
Landing  with  skill  his  finny  prey. 

Whilst  peering  through  the  bushes  slyly 
He  thought  the  stream  was  somewhat  rily, 
And  pushing  in  the  cause  to  study, 
He  found  that  it  was  dev'lish  muddy. 
"What  wretch,"  he  to  himself  did  wrangle, 
"Hath  thus  despoiled  me  of  my  angle, 
Lost  all  my  labor  and  no  sport, 
I'll  corner  him,  or  sell  him  short." 


BILL  BURLING'S  TROUTING  EXPEDITION.         47 

Then  boldly  through  the  tangle  breaking 

He  heard  a  most  unmanly  quaking. 

Thinking  his  enemy  was  frightened, 

His  step  grew  bold,  his  quick  eye  brightened, 

When  suddenly  his  angry  scowl 

Vanished  before  a  savage  growl, 

And  utterly  his  pluck  to  ruin, 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  grizzly  Bruin. 

'Tis  said  that  time  and  tide  won't  wait, 

But,  reader,  had  you  seen  the  gait 

At  which  this  broker  cleared  those  bushes, 

His  lamms  and  slams,  lunges  and  pushes, 

His  fearful  stride  on  level  ground, 

And  over  rocks  his  awful  bound, 

As  he  went  packing  off  that  scare, 

You'd  said  that  time  and  tide  weren't  there ; 

And  to  this  day,  if  bears  you  mention, 

Even  on  'Change,  he's  all  attention. 

Ask  him  at  catching  trout  to  join, 

He'll  answer,  "No,  sir ;  'not  for  coin.' " 

San  Francisco,  Cal. 


48  BARTHOLDI'S  STATUE. 


BAKTHOLDFS  STATUE. 

So  LIBERTY  at  last  will  have  a  place — 

A  very  small  one,  Bedloe's  but  a  speck. 
Lot  plead  for  something  like  it  in  that  race 

From  out  destruction's  jaws,  a  city's  wreck. 
'Tis  thought  that  that  word  "little"  checked  the  pace 

Of  Mrs.  Lot,  who  was  not  found  on  deck 
When  they  arrived  at  Zoar,  but  was  conserved 

In  a  huge  pillar,  haply  still  preserved. 

Like  Marathon,  from  off  this  sparkling  Isle, 
On  the  "glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea," 

Fair  Liberty  shall  look,  long  to  beguile 
The  homeward  bound  and  outward  from  the  lee. — 

0  Commerce,  thou  art  mighty,  and  the  pile 
Is  not  yet  reared  that  can  transfigure  thee ! 

Thou  art  the  blood,  the  heat,  the  life,  the  light 

Of  civilization,  its  glory  and  its  might ! 

Oh  shame !  eternal  shame !  that  thou  art  bound, 
Shame  to  the  charlatans  who  load  thy  wings 

With  tariff  and  exactions.    Thou  hast  crowned 
Nations  with  greatness !    The  free  wind  sings 

Shepherding  thy  peaceful  sails,  but  Tariffs  sound 
Thy  length,  breadth,  height  and  depth,  and  Mam 
mon's  rings 

Batten  upon  thy  marrow  by  election 

Blaspheming  labor  with  the  word  "protection." 


BARTHOLDI'S  STATUE.  49 

Pull  down  the  halyards,  for  our  flag  no  more 

Is  seen  upon  its  broad  and  rolling  deep 
In  Commerce's  ways.    To  and  from  our  shores 

Come  other  emblems;  o'er  our  shipyards  creep 
Rot  and  decay;  the  sea-worms  bore — 

That  "infant  industry"  is  not  asleep — 
While  taxing  poverty  is  not  neglected, 
Theirs  is  the  only  labor  that's  protected. 

Brave  Ebenezer  Elliott  looked  on  Ben  Ann, 

"Thank  God,  there  is  one  place  on  earth,"  he  said, 

"Where  taxed  wheat  and  paupers  cannot  grow."    Scan 
If  you  will  the  moral.    It  is  that  bread 

Will  be  taxed  and  paupers  made  where  man 
Can  profit  by  it,  but  where  all  is  dead 

Exaction  has  no  office  to  bestow, 

And,  if  there  are  no  blossoms,  there's  no  woe. 


50  THE  TRUANTS. 


THE  TEUANTS. 

WHEN  Thothmes  called  the  obelisk 
Forth  from  the  sleeping  rock, 

He  little  deemed  that  it  would  whisk 
And  leave  him  stock  and  lock. 

But,  chiselling  the  taffy  on 

To  give  the  fellow  lip, 
Begot  a  solemn  jest  in  stone 

Unruly  for  a  skip. 

So  off  to  Alexandria, 

Bold  prophecy  to  wheedle, 
He  staged  it  in  a  roving  play 

As  "Cleopatrars  Needle/' 

There  he  struck  hands  with  doughty  Time 

And  in  a  drinking  bout 
Pledged  him  "To  centuries  in  chime." 

The  seventh  laid  him  out. 

As  prone  he  fell,  he  growled  "Old  boy, 
Confound  these  rank  potations." 

The  grim  old  wrestler,  "What  d'ye  soy  ? 
Can't  take  your  regular  rations?" 

He  had  a  fellow  just  as  bad, 

Twin  brothers  in  a  tale, 
The  vexed  Khedive  exclaimed,  "Bedad, 

I'll  give  these  louts  a  sail. 


THE  TRUANTS.  61 


"Britannia  one  shall  have — let's  see, 

Columbia  the  other, 
And  that  will  fix  them  to  a  T, 

The  daughter  and  the  mother." 

So  one  nods  o'er  the  busy  Thames, 
And  one  o'er  Central  Park. 

These  hieroglyphic,  heathen  gems 
Ambiguous  and  dark. 

Embossed  with  mystery  profound 
They  stare  upon  each  morn, 

As  if  they  meant  to  hang  around 
Till  Gabriel  blows  his  horn. 


52  YUBA   DAM. 


YUBA  DAM. 

THE  sun  was  shimmering  all  the  West, 
And  gilding  all  the  yellow  main, 
And  casting  shadows  from  the  crest 
Of  gilded  mountains  to  the  plain, 
As  laboring  up  a  water-course 
A  traveler  pricked  his  weary  horse; 
When  all  at  once  upon  his  sight 
Burst  a  fair  village,  clean  and  bright. 

He  asked  a  miner,  whom  he  met, 
If  he  could  give  its  name :  "You  bet  I" 
"Pray  do,  my  friend,  and  do  not  sham." 
The  miner  answered,  "Yuba  Dam." 

"Kind,  gentle  friend,  do  not  abuse 

My  ignorance;  I  cry  a  truce 

To  thy  bold  wit ;  come,  tell  me  true, 

I  would  not  ask  it  if  I  knew, 

But  I,  dear  sir,  a  stranger  am." 

Quick  roared  the  miner,  "Yuba  Dam !" 

Disheartened,  on  the  stranger  pressed, 
And  overtook  a  mincing  dame, 
With  flaxen  hair  and  silken  vest, 
And  begged  of  her  the  village's  name. 
She  oped  her  sweet  lips  like  a  clam 
And  simpered  gently,  "Yuba  Dam." 


YUBA  DAM.  53 

On  tore  the  stranger,  nearly  wild, 

And  came  upon  an  artless  child ; 

She  had  a  satchel  on  her  arm 

While  o'er  her  face  stole  man/ a  charm. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  the  stranger  said ; 

The  maid  uplifted  quick  her  head 

And  answered  with  the  ready  truth 

And  open  frankness  of  her  youth, 

"At  school."    "Who  keeps  it?"    "Uncle  Sam." 

"What  is  this  place,  sweet?"    "Yuba  Dam." 

"Alas !"  he  screamed,  in  frantic  grief, 
' 'Will  no  one  come  to  my  relief  ? 
Will  no  one  tell  me  where  I  am  ?" 
The  school-boys  shouted  "Yuba  Dam !" 
And  on  the  bridge,  as  he  did  slam 
The  planks  re-echoed,  "Yuba  Dam." 

''Perdition  seize  the  place !"  he  cried, 
As  through  the  streets  he  swiftly  hied. 
Yet  ere  he  went  to  bed  that  night, 
From  something  told  him  by  a  wight, 
He  found  that  he  himself  had  shammed, 
And  that  the  Yuba  had  been  dammed. 


54  WRITTEN  IN  THE  SPRING  OF  1901. 


WEITTEN  IN  THE  SPEING  OF  1901.* 

I'D  like  to  sing,  if  I  could  coax  my  muse 
To  spur  her  spavined  dactyls  into  rhyme, 

Of  the  great  Ship  of  State,  how  manned,  her  crews, 
And  how  she  has  been  steered  from  time  to  time 

Until  she's  lost  her  reckoning ;  but  fear  my  readers 
Before  the  voyage  was  up  would  turn  seceders. 

Maugre  I  have  the  right  to  have  a  vision, 
Poets  have  had  them,  and  the  rapt  St.  John, 

Who  though  he's  somewhat  faulty  in  precision 
And  deals  in  hideous  beasts,  not  found  upon 

The  earth  at  this  late  date,  he  surely  had  the  right 
To  paint  whatever  monsters  came  in  sight. 

And  this  shall  be  my  privilege,  of  course 
I  am  confined  to  beings  here  below, 

And  dare  not,  for  my  life,  attempt  a  verse 
Eequiring  high-flight  antics  just  for  show, 

But  skim  along  to  save  my  muse's  wings 

And  deal  with  heroes,  statesmen,  and  such  things. 

Since  man  began  there's  been  a  constant  struggle 
Whether  he  should  have  liberty  and  life, 

Or  if  his  neighbor,  coveting,  should  smuggle 
Away  his  ass  and  then  seduce  his  wife, 

Whether  of  right  he'd  have  his  toil  to  feed  on, 
Or  be  like  Adam  bundled  out  of  Eden. 

*An  unfinished  poem. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  SPRING  OF  1901.  55 

"Boot  hog  or  die"  is  the  way  that  Greeley  put  it, 
And  others,  I  believe,  have  done  the  same, 

But  whether  on  life's  road  you  ride  or  foot  it 
You'll  find  the  travel  quite  a  lively  game. 

Some  think  indeed,  it  is  not  worth  the  candle 
And  shuffle  off  a  suicidal  scandal. 

The  Greek  and  Eoman  states  are  an  example 

Of  what  a  hugger-mugger  tilt  it  is, 
And  how  the  stronger  on  the  weaker  trample, 

And  scout  at  right  and  justice  as  mere  fizz, 
For  there  was  worked  the  gamut  of  oppression 

For  all  'twas  worth  to  mangle  bones  and  flesh  on. 

But  then  they  rose  to  glory,  high  renown, 
Had  orators  and  statesmen  not  a  few, 

And  ended  up  by  coveting  a  crown, 

And  simmering  down,  much  like  an  Irish  stew 

Served  in  the  devil's  kitchen  just  to  show 
His  majesty  still  wandering  to  and  fro. 

Mortals,  not  blind,  have  seen  the  lordly  sun 

Disclose  the  glories  of  an  eastern  sky 
With  prints  and  tints  like  equerries  that  run 

Before  some  eastern  satrap  seated  high 
To  awe  obsequious  man  with  regal  splendor, 

As  Saul  was  startled  by  the  Witch  of  Endor, 

While  far  below  the  gorgeous  canopy 

Are  knolls  and  rocks  and  trees,  a  sombre  troop, 

Awful  in  grandeur,  earth's  rude  panoply, 
And  made  more  awful  if  an  Indian  whoop. 

And  here  begins  my  very  famous  vision 

On  San  Juan  Hill,  described  with  much  precision. 


56  ALL  HAIL  MISSOURI! 


ALL  HAILMISSOUKI! 

(Written  on  reading  the  resolution  of  the  Missouri  Legisla 
ture  condemning  the  war  in  the  Philippines.) 

ALL  hail  Missouri !    Hail  the  land  of  Pike, 

Land  of  Joe  Bowers  and  his  brother  Ike, 

The  red-haired  butcher  and  sweet  Sally  Black, 

Who  gave  a  baker's  dozen  for  one  smack, 

Of  grand  De  Armond  and  exotic  Vest, 

Who  graced  two  Senates,  could  have  graced  the  rest, 

Hail  all  her  sons !    She  rises  in  her  might, 

Says  public  liberty's  a  public  right, 

That  Filipinos  should  defend  their  bowers 

To  blood  and  death,  as  we  defended  ours ; 

Strips  the  false  cloak  from  false  imperial  whims, 

And  'Changs  a  calf  skin  on  their  recreant  limbs/' 

Let  every  patriot  throat  in  every  land 

Proclaim  her  first,  the  grandest  of  the  grand. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

January,  1901. 


THE    ISLAND   NYMPHS.  67 


THE  ISLAND  NYMPHS.* 

OVID  relates  how  five  nymphs,  swept  to  sea, 
Eose  up  five  islands,  sheltered  in  the  lee ; 
And  how  another,  most  untimely  pressed 
By  her  sire's  rage,  was  added  to  the  rest. 

With  fruits  and  flowers  perennial,  all  were  crowned, 
And  sweets  and  herbage  charmed  the  regions  'round : 
The  offending  damsel  made  the  greatest  show, 
And  in  her  splendor  quite  forgot  her  woe. 

So,  oft  it  haps  that  these  unlooked-for  slips 
Fill  fame's  blown  trumpet  from  the  sweetest  lips, 
As  when  chaste  Juno  entrapped  Jove  on  Ida, 
And  when  the  truant  played  the  swan  to  Leda. 

'Twas  a  mad  river-god  that  wrought  the  change ; 
If  done,  the  miracle's  within  our  range. 
And  if  we  must  have  islands,  why  not  plant 
This  virgin  seed  to  meet  our  virgin  want? 

We  have  the  cutest  germ  desired  on  hand, 
Eager  for  change  and  burning  to  expand ; 
And  so,  benevolent  assimilation 
Slides  into  place  without  a  deviation. 

Besides,  isles  so  begot  are  cheaper  far 
Than  foreign  armies  and  clandestine  war, 
And  no  sane  damsel  would  object  to  be 
A  blooming  island  on  a  silvery  sea, 

*These  lines  were  written  in  the  spring  of  1901. 


I  THE   ISLAND  NYMPHS. 

Where,  like  Narcissus,  she  could  sit  and  look, 
Without  one  fear  of  falling  in  the  brook, 
And  list  to  lovers'  vows,  the  whispering  breeze 
'Neath  sparkling  moonbeams  sifted  through  the  trees, 

Where  gentle  peace  shall  bless  the  genial  earth, 
Birds  sing  in  groves,  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Where  bright  abundance  brings  her  ample  store, 
And  none  are  proudly  rich,  or  meanly  poor. 

But  where,  oh  where,  shall  this  fond  group  abide, 
Kin  to  what  shore,  reflected  in  what  tide  ? 
From  what  proud  city  shall  the  nymphs  be  swept, 
What  river  bear  them,  in  what  sea  be  dipt  ? 

Who'll  mix  the  charm,  and  what  magician  bold 
Turn  maids  to  islands,  islands  into  gold  ? 
There  is  but  one,  great  Boston  gives  the  nod, 
Lodge  the  magician,  Hoar  the  river-god. 


PRESENT-DAY  RHYMSTERS. 


PBESENT-DAY  EHYMSTEES.* 

A  GERMAN  writer,  I  forget  his  name, 
Scherrer,  I  think,  and  not  unknown  to  fame, 
Says  grace  in  letters,  the  poetic  art, 
Come,  trough  and  crest,  six  hundred  years  apart. 

By  that  gradation,  if  we  live  and  thrive, 
We  should  be  crest  in  Century  Twenty-five, 
For  all  who  now  are  in  the  rhyming  trade 
Seem  helter-skelter  rushing  down  the  grade; 

For  neither  north  nor  south,  nor  east  nor  west, 
A  mount  is  seen  since  Whitman  scaled  the  crest 
And  sang  in  bolder  strain,  with  genius  rife 
The  unbridled  features  of  our  refluent  life, 

All  else  seem  tame  and  mingling  'round  the  pool 
Inane  and  lifeless  made  by  Comstock's  rule; 
Fly  kiting  heroes  and  dull  statesmen  kite, 
Turn  thoughts  to  gold,  epochs  to  chrysolite, 

Till  tired  and  baffled  by  poetic  spleen, 
One  wonders  what  the  devil  it  can  mean ; 
Yet  when  the  chipper  rhymster's  at  his  bout, 
'Tis  not  his  rhyming,  but  his  reams  give  out. 

All  hail,  immortal  Muse !    If  that's  too  high, 
Hail  mortal  muse !  and  take  a  lower  fly, 
Skim  o'er  life's  plain,  adorn  what  fancy  craves, 
Exalt  the  noble,  pillory  the  knaves, 

*These  lines  were  written  in  the  spring  of  1901. 


60  PRESENT-DAY  RHYMSTERS. 

Sing  grace  and  loveliness,  your  sweetest  song, 
Lash  bastard  pretense  with  a  patriot's  tongue, 
Conjure  the  spirit  of  old  '76, 
Transfix  the  liar,  and  a  sneak  transfix. 

Paint  Warren  at  the  front  on  Bunker  Hill, 
Stern  in  his  action,  sterner  in  his  will ; 
Give  thunder-tones  to  that  too-silent  bell 
That  cheered  the  patriot,  rang  the  despot's  knell ; 

Eevamp  the  picture  of  our  nation's  birth, 
Raise  all  its  heroes  from  their  mother  earth, 
Let  peerless  Washington  adorn  the  front, 
Comrades  around,  who  with  him  bore  the  brunt ; 

Paint  creeping  near  them,  with  a  serpent's  wile, 
The  Arnold  hosts  that  would  her  sons  beguile, 
With  angry  Nemesis  just  overhead, 
Her  sabre  drawn  to  strike  the  caitiffs  dead ; 

And  then  you'll  have  a  picture  shall  outvie 
In  time  and  art  the  liar  and  the  lie. 
This  has  been  done,  and  deftly  done,  by  others, 
I  hail  them  more  than  equals,  more  than  brothers. 


ON  MRS.  AMBROSE'S  BIRTHDAY.  61 


ON  MRS.  AMBROSE'S  BIRTHDAY, 
11TH  SEPTEMBER,  1895. 

DAYS,  months  and  years  go  fleeting  by, 

And  cycles  follow  in  their  train, 
But  yet,  they  only  seem  to  fly, 

They  all  return,  they  all  remain. 

Life  too,  the  tide  rolls  broadly  on, 

With  trough  and  crest,  with  ebb  and  flow, 
Billows  on  billows,  now,  anon, 

They  but  reform,  they  never  go. 

Life's  realms  have  one  eternal  rule, 

Creation,  an  eternal  hand; 
Nature  is  teacher,  and  the  school 

Fashions  to  her  inspiring  wand. 

And  so  we  meet  to-night  to  charm 

A  spirit,  flashing  like  a  gem, 
Be  it  in  sunshine,  or  in  storm, 

An  ever-radiant  diadem. 

And  nearer,  nearer,  as  we  come 

To  the  grand  purpose  of  the  whole, 

Clearer  and  clearer,  grows  the  sum, 
The  light  of  an  eternal  soul. 


62  TO  MARTHA. 


TO  MAETHA.* 
"Remember  the  Poem!" 

I  TRY  to  wake  my  sleeping  muse,  but  lo ! 

She  will  not  answer  to  my  earnest  call, 
Her  lyre  hangs  pendant  from  her  hand,  and  slow 

O'er  her  dull  eyes  enf ringed,  the  lashes  fall. 

So  goes  to  sleep  the  twilight  in  the  West, 
When  the  tired  sun  has  made  his  weary  set, 

And  Night's  quick  upsprings,  throng  with  their  unrest 
The  gloaming  regions  of  a  world  of  jet. 

But  when  the  pale-faced  moon  climbs  up  the  East 

And  sets  her  sober  shadows  in  array, 
The  dreaming  soul  may  on  Night's  wonders  feast, 

And  soar  to  other  worlds  far,  far  away. 

Even  so,  half  dozing  o'er  my  unwrit  page, 
I  floundered  aimless  in  a  world  of  thought, 

Wondering  of  what  I'd  write,  and  on  what  age, 
Of  the  strange  fancies  I  had  known  and  wrought : 

When,  on  the  cloudless  vista,  gazing  west, 

A  maiden  form  came  stately  into  view, 
An  ocean  rolled  between  us,  trough  and  crest, 

But  high  o'er  all  she  walked  in  ether  blue. 

*  The  parting  words  of  Miss  Martha  Mitchell  to  the 
author,  on  her  leaving  Washington  for  Germany  to  study, 
were  "Remember  the  poem,"  reminding  him  of  a  promise 
previously  made  to  send  her  a  poem.  The  poem  when  sent 
brought  from  Miss  Mitchell  a  picture  of  Hildesheim  Dom 
and  a  beautiful  letter. 


TO  MARTHA.  63 

In  her  left  hand  she  held  a  parchment  white, 
On  which  she  slowly  traced,  "Have  you  forgot?" 

I  woke ;  the  vision  vanished  from  my  sight, 
But  not  the  warning  words,  "Have  you  forgot?" 

Eouse  up,  my  muse,  I  cried,  'tis  Martha  calls, 

Quick,  string  thy  lyre,  tuned  to  the  sweetest  strain, 

That  ever  yet  was  heard  in  minstrel  halls, 
To  charm  a  peasant  or  a  royal  train. 

Tell  Time  to  break  his  dial  in  her  path, 
And  strew  the  fragments  o'er  with  sunniest  flowers, 

Crown  her  with  laurel,  and  take  captive  Wrath, 
To  build  for  her  the  greenest,  loveliest  bowers. 

Bid  Learning  bring  her  store,  and  at  her  call 
Adorn  her  brow  with  wisdom,  truth  and  grace, 

Let  Diligence  and  Industry  ne'er  pall, 

But  keep  her  always  in  the  foremost  place, 
To  crown  with  wholesome  deeds  a  noble  race. 

Washington.  D.  C., 

January  19,  1900. 


64  ADELAIDE  JOHNSON. 


ADELAIDE  JOHNSON. 

SHE  stands  alone,  without  a  prop 
Against  a  world  of  broken  hopes ; 

In  her  free  veins  there's  not  a  drop 
Of  coward  blood,  nor  one  that  mopes ; 

For  her  grand  spirit  sees  on  high 
A  purpose  and  a  destiny. 

Adoring  all  of  nature's  schemes, 

She  soars  above  each  low-born  thought, 

And  dreaming  as  the  enthusiast  dreams 
Of  grand  ideals  deftly  wrought, 

She  kneels  before  the  shrine  of  art 
And  of  its  goddess  craves  her  part. 

The  tumult  of  life's  stormy  sea 

Awes  not  her  soul,  nor  brave  designs, 

For  what  she  is,  or  is  to  be, 

She  fashions  forth  and  intertwines, 

Till  fate  and  fortune's  fickle  woof 
Her  aegis  is  and  arrow-proof. 

Like  a  tall  spire  she  towers  unchanged 
Amidst  the  shifting  groups  around, 

And  whatsoever  is  deranged 

Touches  her  not,  nor  can  confound ; 

In  her  own  self  she  is  secure, 
A  model  and  a  cynosure. 


ADELAIDE  JOHNSON.  65 

No  hapless  lot  for  her  is  stored ; 

She'll  have  a  harvest  all  her  own ; 
Nor  will  it  be  a  miser  hoard, 

But  liberal  flung,  like  blessings  strown 
Upon  a  pathway  free,  unstained, 

Though  all  her  life's  blood  it  has  drained. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

August  26,  1898. 


TO  MISS  ADELAIDE  JOHNSON.* 

YOUR  messenger  has  come, 

The  Queen  of  Night, 

Who  modestly  doth  reign 

Among  the  stars, 

Shunning  the  sun's  fierce  gaze, 

An  almost  bodiless  ecstasy 

To  charge  life's  vapors 

With  ecstatic  bliss, 

A  heavenly  incense, 

Herald  of  the  morn 

And  that  the  soul 

Shall  with  eternity  keep  pace — 

This  is  your  message 

If  I  read  aright. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

July  29,  1895. 

*Written  upon  receiving  from  Miss  Johnson  a  beautiful 
flower  which  blooms  only  at  night  and  is  called  "The  Queen 
of  Night." 


66  TO  MISS  KATE  FIELD. 


TO  MISS  KATE  FIELD. 

0  KATY  FIELD  from  fair  Missouri, 
0  Katy  Field  from  the  broad  valley, 

Oh  wot  you  how  you've  treated  me 

Sin  we  chance  met  in  life's  sweet  alley  ? 

You  vowed,  you  swore  you'd  speak  me  fair, 
You  said  you'd  do  it  late  and  early, 

But  oh,  you  marvel  silent  girl, 

Have  you  forgot  your  promise  fairly  ? 

Dear  Katy,  life  is  ebbing  fast 
And  faster  as  the  goal  we  near  it, 

We  fly  as  't  were  to  a  repast 

For  vain  and  foolish  't  were  to  fear  it. 

Then  cheerful  to  it  let  us  go, 

Blythe,  scaling  dikes  and  clearing  ditches ; 
To  intermingle  scatters  woe 

As  whistling  scatters  ghosts  and  witches. 

Then  don't  be  silent  any  more, 

Vilas,  the  post-boy,  is  for  use, 
The  surplus  force  he  has  in  store 

Pray  utilize  and  make  a  truce. 

For  you're  a  pride  'mang  men  and  girls 
And  a'  your  ways  are  blythe  and  bonny, 

And  a*  your  path  is  strewn  with  pearls 
And  graces  dripping  sweet  as  honey. 


RECEIPT  FOR  A  CHECK.  67 

Fair  Katy  Field.,  God  bless  the  day 

That  we  chance  met  in  life's  thronged  valley, 

For  it  has  brightened  up  the  way 
As  sounds  make  cheerful  Echo  rally. 

New  York  City, 

May  27, 1886. 


RECEIPT  FOR  A  CHECK.* 

DEAR  FANNIE: 

We're  in  clover  now 
Howe'er  misfortune  grieves, 
And  send  you  for  your  bank  account 
A  knife  to  cut  the  leaves. 

But  we  have  not  one  bank  alone 
Subject  to  Friendship's  call, 
But  Fannie  Banks  Unlimited 
With  store  enough  for  all. 

And  in  our  hearts  a  mighty  wish 
Doth  half  imprisoned  shine 
With  cords  of  love  to  twine  with  yours 
For  days  of  auld  lang  syne. 

Washington,  D.  C.,  CHARLES  JAMES. 

December  28, 1893. 

•Written  on  receiving  a  check  in  the  following  terms: 
No.  P30472  New  York,  Dec.  22,  1893. 

THE  BANK  OF  FRIENDSHIP  UNLIMITED, 

Goodwill  Square  Branch. 
Pay  to  the  Order  of  Charles  James 

One  Thousand  Hearty  Greetings. 
G  1,000  FANNIE  E.  BANKS. 


TO  MRS.  HELEN  L.  SUMNER. 


TO  MRS.  HELEN  L.  SUMNER. 

WAITING,  waiting,  gentle  spirit, 

Waiting  for  the  call, 
Doing  deeds  of  love  and  kindness, 

Charity  to  all. 

'Tis  not  waiting,  it  is  flying, 
Healthful,  wholesome,  to  a  goal, 

On  the  mighty  plan  relying, 
Light  is  breaking  on  the  soul. 

Ocean,  river,  valley,  mountain, 
Into  splendor  roll  each  morn. 

Loyally  they  greet  the  fountain, 
Light  of  which  the  earth  is  born. 

Search  it  out,  its  hidden  wonders, 
Whence  it  is,  and  what  it  means, 

Through  the  misty  clouds  it  thunders, 
Tear  away  the  gauzy  screen. 

Constant  as  the  star  that  guideth 
All  the  barks  that  ride  the  sea 

Is  the  spirit  that  abideth 
Where  we  honor  it,  in  thee. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

September  1,  1897. 


TO  MRS.  JENNIE  L.  MUNROE.  09 


TO  MES.  JENNIE  L.  MUNROE. 

NATURE'S  laws  encompass  all, 

By  Nature,  I  mean  God, 

The  all  in  one,  and  one  in  all. 

There's  nothing  can  be  said  or  writ 
Within  the  range  of  human  wit, 
Has  not  been  writ  or  said  before. 

Within  the  fold  of  Nature's  laws 
We  find  ourselves,  nor  know  the  cause, 
But  nothing  fails,  there  is  no  pause. 

Onward  we  move  within  the  train 

And  fancy  we  may  meet  again; 

In  the  grand  march  there  is  no  wane. 

All  know  you  have  a  noble  trend, 

You  would  not  mar,  but  you  would  mend ; 

'Tis  compassed  in  the  name  of  Friend. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

January  1,  1898. 


70  TO  MISS  NELLIE  AMBROSE. 


TO  MISS  NELLIE  AMBKOSE. 

I  KNOW  a  young  woman 
Who  is  always  engaged; 
Like  the  light  of  the  morning 
She  cannot  be  caged. 
Like  the  light  of  the  morning, 
Without  any  staging, 
Whenever  you  meet  her 
She's  always  engaging. 


Washington,  D.  C., 

April  18,  1894. 


TO  ELLEN  ATJEELIA  OPHELIA. 

(Written  upon  receiving  from  Nellie  Ambrose,  at  Christ 
mas  time,  a  box  containing  cake  made  by  her  own  hands,  and  a 
piece  of  mistletoe.) 

A  MISTLETOE  without  a  kiss, 

You  flout  me  for  no  Hobson, 
But  I'll  be  there,  high-headed  Miss, 

Whenever  that  big  job's  on. 


TO  NELL.  71 


TO  NELL. 

I  KNOW  a  girl  who  said  she'd  write 
But  didn't  keep  her  promise,  quite, 
For  these  small  slips  she's  "out  of  sight," 
And  would  not  even  to  Caesar  render 
One  half  his  right. 
I  cannot  defend  her. 

But,  try  her  on  another  tack, 
Just  give  her  politics  a  whack, 
Or  her  religion,  and  smack,  smack, 
She's  foremost  in 
To  give  your  liveliest  wits  a  crack 
And  make  them  spin. 

But  yet,  I  really  like  the  girl, 

'T  would  set  your  senses  in  a  whirl 

To  see  her  trig  from  heel  to  curl 

Out  on  a  fly  to  grace  the  worl', 

And  make  it  better, 

Although  she  treats  me  like  a  churl — 

Her  promised  letter. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

August  29,  1896. 


72  TO  ANNIE. 


TO  ANNIE. 

(This  poem  was  written  on  receiving  the  following: 
"Data  for  a  poem  by  Colonel  James. 

"A  sunshiny  day  in  South  Carolina.  A  combination  of  tall 
oak,  mistletoe  and  mocking  bird.  Two  Washington  tourists 
pausing  in  the  middle  of  sidewalk  to  look  and  listen.  Sudden 
arrival  around  the  corner  of  a  Wheelman  without  a  Bell. 
Hasty  dismounting  on  part  of  B.  W.,  quick  return  to  real 
life  on  part  of  T.  W.  T.,  profuse  mingling  of  apologies — 
southern  and  northern — on  part  of  all. 

"To  be  written  when  Inclination  says  'Ready'  and  forwarded 
to  A.  L.  Ambrose,  Aiken,  S.  C.") 

I'M  not  wound  up,  my  lady  dear, 
And  if  I  were,  it  is  not  clear 
That  I  could  riddle  out  the  group, 
My  Muse  soars  high,  she's  hard  to  stoop. 

Far  more  in  comets,  she  delights, 

And  moonshine  nymphs  and  mountain  sprites, 

Or 'fairies  dancing  round  a  spring, 

And  if  she  were  to  cour  her  wing 

'Tis  not  of  bicycles,  she'd  sing. 

The  lofty  oaks,  she  might  take  in, 
And  mistletoe  and  mocking  bird, 
And  tourists  too,  but  'twould  be  sin 
To  plank  her  on  the  sidewalk  hard, 
There  to  screech  out,  like  Jacky  Homer, 
A  brave  boy's  triumph  in  a  corner. 


TO  ANNIE.  73 


No,  my  fair  Coz,  give  for  a  theme 
A  soaring  planet,  or  a  dream, 
Satan  transformed,  at  war  with  sin, 
Or  some  aerial  harlequin 
Eiding  a  tempest  for  a  lark, 
Leander  on  his  fatal  spark 
To  Hero  o'er  the  Dardanelles, 
.Or  witches,  naiads,  sylphs  and  spells, 

Or  whatsoever  scene  may  strike  you, 
But  more  exalted,  and  more  like  you, 
I'll  loose  the  jesses  of  my  Muse 
And  whistle  her  off  upon  the  cruise. 


74  TO   SARAH. 


TO  SAEAH. 

(Written  after  sleeping  under  a  comfort  sent  by  the  author's 
sister,  Mrs.  Sarah  V.  Coon,  as  a  Christmas  gift  from  Chicopee, 
Mass.) 

MY  fancy  flew  o'er  hill  and  lea 
To  bright  and  joyous  Chicopee, 
There  Tuttle,  with  his  genial  smile, 
His  winning  partner,  without  guile, 
His  charming  daughter,  full  of  grace, 
Jim,  with  his  sober,  honest  face, 
Burke,  pen  and  ink  poised  o'er  his  book, 
Spit-fire  Louise,  with  scornful  look, 
Elizabeth,  with  graceful  mien, 
And  worshiped  Sarah,  glorious  Queen, 
All  gave  me  greeting  fair  and  true, 
Deeming  the  courtesy  was  due. 
It  warmed  my  slow  and  sluggish  parts 
To  meet  such  true  and  faithful  hearts. 
I  woke  at  dawn,  brimful  of  glee 
At  fancy's  sketch  of  Chicopee. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

December  24,  1900. 


A   LETTER.  75 


A  LETTEE. 
DEAR  FANNIE: 

"Flies"  or  no  flies,  there's  not  a  day 
But  that  I  think  of  you  and  pray 
That  you  may  keep  your  spirits  gay. 

I  know  I  should  have  written  sooner, 
But  I  am  not  a  letter  donor, 
In  fact,  I  do  not  pay  my  debts, 
And  she  that  gets  a  line  from  me 
May  be  assured  she  nuggets  gets — 
Not  gold  from  Klondike — love  from  me. 

Then  to  that  priceless  heritage, 
A  spirit  that  can  never  age, 
That  will  not  thunder  in  the  bass, 
Nor  on  the  "small  notes"  leave  a  trace 
To  mar  their  symphony  or  grace, 
I  pay  the  tribute  of  a  sage. 

And  so  I  send  this  billet-doux 

That  flies  from  me,  and  flies  to  you. 

CHARLES  JAMES. 
Washington,  D.  C., 

February  16,  1898. 


76  THE  DEAMA  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO. 


THE  DKAMA  THIETY  YEARS  AGO.* 

Miss  Agnes  Ethel,  as  Frou  Frou,  on  her  benefit  night  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Theatre,  Monday,  April  25,  1870. 

0  HAPLESS  Frou  Frou!  thoughtless,  fond  and  vain! 

Indulgence  was  thy  sentinel — thy  bane. 

Tho'  not  a  wanton,  yet  a  wanton's  fate 

Thou  found'st — and  found'st  remorse,  alas,  too  late! 

'Tis  not  the  "common  lot,"  still  let  us  hope ! 

Yet  'gainst  what  odds  must  thoughtless  virtue  cope ! 

Child,  maid,  wife,  mother — happy  unreviled — 

Mistress  and  outcast,  wretched  and  defiled — 

May  be  the  fate  of  any — who  can  tell 

Why  one's  exalted,  why  the  other  fell  ? 

Fate  fashions  destinies,  and  on  her  track 

There's  an  abiding,  ever-lurking  pack 

That  will  not  let  the  weary  wanderers  rest, 

By  wants  and  trials  puzzled  and  distressed, 

That  follows  close  where'er  they  wend  their  way ; 

And  if  they  falter,  has  them  still  at  bay; 

Will  show  no  mercy  when  they  trembling  fall — 

But  sweeps  the  hand  of  ruin  over  all ! 

God,  in  Thy  mercy,  spare  such  if  Thou  wilt! 

But  man  deals  vengeance  for  their  nameless  guilt ! 

Wouldst  learn  to  shun  the  wrong  and  choose  the  right, 

And  'gainst  temptation  wage  the  victor's  fight? 

See  Agnes  Ethel  paint  with  living  fire 

The  death-bed  where  unguarded  hopes  expire ! 

•Published  in  The  Washington  Post,  April  25,  1900. 


THE  DRAMA  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO.  77 

How  art  can  rival  nature  and  forestall 
Her  lessons,  rounded  by  the  bitter  fall ! 
How  with  a  more  than  master's  hand  she  draws 
The  line  where  weak  frivolity  must  pause 
Or  take  the  unerring  sentence  of  the  Just — 
"Thy  hopes  are  embers  and  thy  fancies  dust." 
Whose  skill  can  rob  pollution  of  its  taint, 
And  make  sin-stricken  guilt  a  teaching  saint, 
Whose  power  is  passion,  mastered  to  her  will, 
Taught  to  inspire,  refine,  exalt,  and  thrill, 
Whose  every  action  is  a  victor's  wreath — 
A  moral  warning  from  a  living  death  — 
Whose  final  triumph,  in  the  tragic  close, 
Is  cypress  dark,  transfigured  to  a  rose ! 
And  chastened,  as  you  see  the  curtain  fall 
Know  that  bright  Ethel  is  the  life  of  all. 

(The  play  had  been  running  for  nearly  one  hundred  nights; 
popular  interest  had  not  abated.  The  press  was  bounteous  in 
its  praise;  the  Herald  said  it  was  a  success  in  every  respect, 
that  its  reign  had  been  golden,  and  the  lovely  queen  had 
royally  worn  her  honors.  After  the  performance,  a  banquet 
was  given,  at  which  the  mayor  of  the  city,  with  Miss  Ethel 
on  his  right,  presided.  Congratulatory  speeches  were  made, 
and  what  is  known  as  legitimate  drama  had  a  triumph,  such 
as  might  have  reminded  one  of  the  days  of  Siddons  and  of 
Sheridan.  There  are  indications  that  it  may  return.) 


78  IN  THE  CATSKILLS. 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS.* 
(To  Mrs.  Agnes   Ethel  Tracy.) 

THE  moon  rose  slow  o'er  Kaaterskill, 

I  wandered  in  a  lonely  walk, 

A  living  presence  seemed  to  fill 

All  nature,  animate  but  still, 

Bent,  mute,  and  listening  to  a  rill 

That  gurgling  seemed  full  of  talk. 

Its  babble  was  of  ancient  days, 

When  giant  nature  piled  the  rocks, 

Fashioned  the  dells  and  waterways, 

And  heaved  with  her  primeval  shocks 

The  broad-backed  mountains  to  the  clouds, 

And  clothed  them  in  their  misty  shrouds, 

Mingled  with  fancy's  airy  forms 

That  puffed  the  winds  and  trooped  the  storms 

And  swarmed  at  dawn  across  the  glade 

And  sought  at  noon  the  grotto's  shade, 

And  then,  as  fairies  in  a  ring, 

Wove  moonlit  dances  'round  the  spring, 

Till  Pan's  sharp  notes  broke  up  the  mirth    . 

For  Nymphs  of  less  ethereal  birth 

Who  basked  in  groves  and  bathed  in  floods, 

While  Fauns  and  Satyrs  roamed  the  woods, 

Forecasting,  as  the  scheme  unfurled, 

Plan  after  plan,  a  peopled  world. 

Then  came  a  race  tall-built  and  spare, 

Brown  children  of  the  sun  and  air, 

*  Published  in  The  Washington  Post,  October  2,  1900. 


IN  THE  CATSKILLS.  79 

Kindred  by  comradeship  and  thought 
To  all  the  wonders  nature  wrought. 
Swift-footed  as  the  leaping  stream 
And  agile  as  the  quivering  beam 
That  chases  from  the  mountain's  height 
The  lagging  couriers  of  the  night, 
Well  trained  in  arms  for  war  or  chase — 
Then  veered  the  tale  and  in  their  place, 
Like  magic,  came  a  fairer  race; 
And  in  their  midst  a  graceful  Queen, 
As  brilliant  as  the  summer's  sheen 
That  glances  through  the  greenwood  trees, 
Ornate  with  dignity  and  ease, 
Where  in  her  rural  Bungalowf 
High  thoughts  abound  and  wit  doth  flow, 
And  sweet  refinement  mingles  grace, 
And  minds  o'er-taxed  find  resting  place, 
Mid  social  joys  that  humble  pride, 
And  where  a  minstrel  might  abide, 
Patroned,  as  by  the  fair  Buccleuch,$ 
With  ladies'  smiles  and  praises  too — 
But  here  the  clamoring  midnight  bell 
Cut  short  the  tale,  dissolved  the  spell ; 
The  babbling  sounds  died  in  mine  ear, 
The  stream  grew  silent,  smooth,  and  clear. 

t  Mrs.  Tracy's  summer  home  in  the  Catskills. 
I  Anne  Scott,  Duchess  of  Buccleuch,  in  "Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel." 


80  TO  AGNES. 


TO  AGNES. 

THE  bee  steals  from  the  flower ; 
The  flower  steals  from  the  dew. 

But  whence  the  dew?    Through  night's  long  hours 

Bright  fairies  breathe  it  on  the  flowers. 
One  told  me  so  at  trysting  time, 

When  vesper  bells  swing  heavy  chime, 
And  so  I  tell  the  tale  to  you. 

They  are  the  shimmering  nymphs  of  light 
Begotten  of  the  moonbeams  bright 

Upon  the  breast  of  starry  night. 

They  hold  their  court  by  rock  and  fell, 

They  dance  about  the  roaring  linn, 
And  then  they  swarm  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

And  breathe  the  sweets  the  flowers  inhale, 
As  playful  zephyrs  gather  music's  charms, 

As  spirit  fires  the  blood  that  beauty  warms. 

But  when  the  stag  springs  hasty  from  his  lair, 

Bears  high  his  antlers,  sniffs  the  bracing  air, 
And  listens  to  the  stirring  hunter's  horn, 

Which  tells  the  chase  is  up,  the  day  is  born, 
They  vanish  in  its  circumambient  beams, 

As  waking  thoughts  drive  off  unwaking  dreams, 
And  then  their  latent  sweets  are  gathered  in 

By  the  wild  bee  with  hum,  and  buzz,  and  din. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

February  19,  1901. 


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